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READING FOR THE MILLION. 

BURGESS, STRINGER, & CO'S New Series. No. I. I 




i 




THE 



iME'&ICAN m PARIS, 



DURING THE SUMMER, 



I ' 

i PICTURE OF PARISIAN LIFE, 



JULES JANIN. 



i NEWYORK: 

I BURGESS, STRINGER, & CO., 

'M 222 BROADWAY, CORNER OF ANN STREET. 

% REDDING AND CO., BOSTON. — G. B. ZIEBER AND CO., PHILADELPHIA.' 

W war. TAYLOR, BALTIMORE. ^BRAVO AND MORGAN, NEW ORLEANS. 



1844. 

PRICE TWENTY-FIVE CENTS. 



I 



M 



j^ m THE COURT, THE SALONS, AND THE FAJni.Y CIRCLE ; ITS SPOKTS, ^ 

i i 

M s AMUSEMENTS, AND FESTIVITIES. m 

i . i 



BY 



AD VER T ISEMENT. 



The name and reputation of Jules Janin are familiar to the civilized 
world. He shines one of the brightest stars in the grand constellation of 
French genius. He ranks with Thiers, Dumas, Guizot, Bernard, Dude- 
vant, Sue, De Balzac, etc. ; but in some appreciable qualities he excels 
them all. His writings are the colored Daguerreotypes of modern litera- 
ture. Scenes, characters, manners, events, are pictured with the vivid- 
ness, the minuteness, and the brilliant coloring, of the camera obscura. 
The world has pronounced him the most vigorous, elegant, and fascina- 
ting writer of the age. 

The following translation of his last and most popular work is from the 
press of Longman, Brown, Green, and Longmans, London ; it is pub- 
lished in Paris, in French and English ; and in Leipsic, in German. The 
imported edition, of which this is an exact reprint, sold, during the holy- 
days, at SIX DOLLARS AND A HALF a copy ! 

"The American in Paris during the Winter," a companion for 
the present work, is stereotyped in the same style, and will be issued 
immediately. Each of these works is complete in itself; but no person 
who reads one, will willingly do without the other. 

The publishers have peculiar pleasure in commencing this new series 
with two books of so popular and excellent a character. 

BURGESS, STRINGER, & CO. 

New York, January, 1844. 



■ A 






THE 



AMERICAN IN PAEIS 



DURING THE SUMMER, 



BY 



JULES JANIN. 



NEW YORK: 
BURGESS, STRINGER, & CO., 

229 BROADWAY, CORNEK OF ANN STREET. 



1844. 



v\ 



FRENCH TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. 



Our American appears before you once more. Last year, at the same 
period, he described to you, in the best way he could, Parisian life, during 
the brilliant months of winter. He had then arrived in the great city, at 
the very moment when the closing days of autumn were disappearing be- 
neath the yellow leaves. A traveller without affectation, he asked nothing 
more than to take his part in the sweet joys, lively emotions, and noisy 
pleasures of this world of the powerful and the rich ; he endured as well 
as he could the intoxications and the delirium of the masked ball, the thou- 
sand cross-fires of Parisian conversation ; the paradoxes, the slanders, and 
even the innocent calumnies that he saw around him ; he entered into all, 
he wished to see everything, and he fulfilled his wish. Not that he ad- 
vanced very far into the mysteries of the good city ; but he stood, as one 
may say, on the edge of the wood, and thence he threw his curious and 
attentive look upon these gay and quickly-changing lights and shades. 
For a fellow-countryman of Franklin's, our Yankee is certainly somewhat 
of an acute observer ; what he did not see, he guessed — not sometimes 
without a certain discrimination and pertinence. That which we espe- 
cially admire in him, and which will not displease the reader, is a great 
fund of benevolence, a happy good humor, which has nothing affected 
about it, and an indescribable entrain and rapture, which the greater part 
of the time keeps the reader awake. This is all that we can say in his 
favor, for we are not of the number of those tiresome editors who are al- 
ways saying, " Come and see a masterpiece, come and salute a great 
man ; the great man and the masterpiece were both invented by me !" 
We hope never to fall into this enthusiasm, which is very unbecoming to 
him who is its object. All our duty as editor we have faithfully fulfilled, 
and now it is for the book to defend itself. If by chance it is a good 
book, depend upon it the public will receive it with favor. And why, 
then, say so much 1 All our ambition — and you will see that it is easily 
satisfied — is, that with an absent look, after having thoroughly admired 
the new chefs d^ceuvre of M. Eugene Lami, and of Mr. Heath, his worthy 
interpreter, you will read a few of these pages, in which the translator has 
endeavored to reproduce somewhat of the grace, the vivacity, and the 
interest, of the original book. 

What we have now said of the " Winter in Paris"* — a book which has 
been received with more literary eagerness than could have been expected ; 
so much so, that it has been found necessary to print two editions — we can 
especially repeat of the present volume, the " Summer in Paris" w^hich 

* The French work of last year was called " Un hiver i Paris," and that of this year 
i$ denominated " L'Ete a Paris." 



FRENCH TRANSLATOR S PREFACE. 



appeared to us the necessary consequence of tlie other. Besides, the 
subject is not less beautiful nor less vast. If the Parisian winter is, par 
excellence, the season for brilliant fetes, on the other hand, a summer in 
Paris, one single summer, will acquaint you, better than ten winters, with 
the hundred thousand little revolutions which the city undergoes, on cer- 
tain days of the year. Paris in the summer is the city in repose ; she 
forgets the labors of her coquetry and her ambition, that she may afterward 
remember them with more joy ; she yields herself — happy creature ! — to a 
calmer existence, to less-ardent passions. The most untamed go to a dis- 
tance — to the Pyrenees, to the Alps, or to the borders of the sea — to seek 
in the chances of travelling, in the violent emotions of the trente et quarante, 
through the burning accidents of the month of August, something which 
resembles the winter in Paris. But the Parisian, who is wise and worthy 
of being a Parisian, remains quietly in Paris ; there he profits by the space 
which is left him, he possesses himself of all these noises, of all this si- 
lence, for his single use. To him alone — now that the rest of the city has 
set out — to him alone belongs this rich capital of the world, from the pal- 
ace of the king to the royal library ; to him belong all the paintings, all the 
books, all which constitutes art and poetry. He reigns in interregnum. 
For him alone, the Opera sings and dances ; for him alone, the Theatre 
Fran9ois invents its comedies ; for him the street-music fills the air with 
its rustic melodies ; for him the railroads are filled each morning with 
their powerful flame. The jets cfeau of Versailles, and the fountains of 
Saint Cloud, and the rural f^tes beneath the old village-elm, are all for him. 
There is not a flower which he may not pluck, not a piece of ice from 
last winter which has not been preserved for his use, not a scarf, not a 
straw hat from Italy, not a pretty, ingenuous countenance, of which the 
model-Parisian does not have the first sight ; not a little love-song or 
drinking-song which the poet and the musician have not composed for this 
pacha of the beautiful days of June, July, and September. Travellers 
from all countries, travellers from the depth of Russia with its brilliant 
fetes, Englishmen who have quitted your green meadows, Scotchmen from 
the banks of the Tweed, our Irish brothers, who abandon, at its most ex- 
citing moment, your Emerald Isle ; and you the lovely black-eyed Italians 
— Italians from Naples ; you the fair Italians from Milan or from Florence ; 
you, also, the daughters of Germany, the dreamers, the imaginative beings 
who seek the ideal upon the earth .... and in the sky : what do you in- 
tend to do in Paris these sunny days 1 what do you come to seek in these 
profound solitudes ? — " We come," say they, " when all the false Parisians 
are absent, that we may observe and admire more closely the true Parisian 
of Paris." 

Thus has our American La Bruy^re done ; he also wished to know what 
kind of life is led in the deserted city, what philosophers walk under the 
flowering chestnut-trees, and what songs of thanksgiving are uttered by 
the wave of the Seine, from the moment when it escapes — an imknown 
source — across the fertile country, to the solemn hour when it loses itself 
in the sea. This is the way in which this second volume has been com- 
posed, filled with the most beautiful passages, the finest f6tes, the 
Parisian elegancies ; and which, in short, is a true epitome of a Parisian 
summer. 

The Editor. 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER I. 

Page 
Leaving Paris — ^Peculiarities of Paris — Retrospection— Wadsworth Longfellow — 
Paris the Centre of France — The Celebrated Men of the Provinces — Brittany 
— Provence — Burgundy — Normandy — The Seine — Celebrated Men of Paris — 
Moliere and Voltaii-e — A great Mistake — Journey of Lord S to Rome — For- 
gets to visit St. Peter's— Similar Predicament of the Author in Paris — Victor 
Hugo — His Love of the Horrible — His Idea of the Picturesque, and Partiality for 
ancient Paris 9 

CHAPTER H. 

The Eighteenth Century— State of Paris at that Time— Power of the French 
Fashions — Present Improvements — Fortune-Hunters — Their Habits — The old 
Nobility — An old Sportsman — Forest of Compiegne — The Royal Almanac— M. 
Cherin — The old Miser — Her valuable Hoards — Her Death — The Opera ... 17 

CHAPTER HI. 

Parisian Churches — An Anecdote — Associations of Paris — ^The Val de Grace — The 
Jardin des Plantes — Santeul — Pans white and Paris black — The Sorbonne — M. 
Saint Marc Girardin — The Sorbonne and the Bastille — Revolutionaries — The 
Orators of the Sorbonne— M. Guizot— M. Villemain— M. Cousin — M. Laromi- 
guiere — Fete at the Sorbonne — Cathedrals of Saint Denis — Tombs of Saint 
Denis — Island of Saint Denis 25 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Cafe Procope— Island of Saint Louis— Hotel Lambert— Antiquarians— M. 
Lenoir — M. du Sommerard — A French Bishop — A lucky Escape — The Hotel de 
Cluny — Its Chapel — Chamber of Francis I. — Longchamps ....... 39 

CHAPTER V. 

Paris a Coquette — The Year 2440 — Mercier's Dreams — Voltaire out of Fashion — 
Allegory — Definition of a Gentleman — "Various Improvements — M. Gannal — Pal- 
ace of the Quai d'Orsay — Hotel of a Minister — Country Excursions — Saint Ger- 
main—The Country Ball 45 

CHAPTER VI. 

The Royal Stables at Chantilly— The Chantilly Races— The Race for the Gold 
Cup — An unexpected Ball — Strange Mistakes — Return to the City — Toilet of 
Paris — Effect of Revolutions — Respect of the French for unfinished Monuments 
—The unfinished Louvre 54 



6 CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER VII. 

Page 
The Postman — ^A welcome Messenger — An Invitation — The Croix de Berny — ^The 
High Road — The Steeple Chase — Enthusiasm of the French 58 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The Circus in the Champs Elysees — The Greenroom of the Actors — Their Freedom 
from Affectation — M. Baucher — Partisan — The Champs Elysees — The Alhe des 
Veuves— The Comet of 1843 61 

CHAPTER IX. 

A Sudden Recollection — Reasons for returning to Paris — Powerful Attractions — 
Rouen — ^A happy Circumstance — Opening of the Railroad — Cordiality of the 
French and EngHsh Workmen — Liberality of Feeling — The Exposition at the 
Louvre — Discussion about the Paintings — Eagerness of the Artists at the Open- 
ing of the Exposition — The Portraits — M. Ingres — His Portrait of M. Bertin — 
His Portrait of Count Mole — M. Champmartin — M. Winterhalter — Likenesses 
of the Dutchess de Nemours — M. Dubufe — ^His Impartiality as a Painter — His Ad- 
miration of the Ladies — ^M. Guizot — ^Death of Madame Guizot — Isabey — Van- 
dalism of the French 63 

CHAPTER X. 

A Visit — Delicate Health of the Parisian Ladies — Convalesence — ^Parisian Causerie 
—Europe a vast Saloon 71 

CHAPTER XI. 

Versailles — The Railroad— The Windmill at Versailles — Louis XIV. at VersaUles 
—His Chamber— The (Eil-de-BcEuf— The Chapel— Louis XIV. the real King of 
Versailles — Louis Philippe at Versailles — Fete of June 10, 1839 — Versailles 
now a Museum — Statue of Joan of Arc — The old Marshals recognising Them- 
selves in the Paintings — Varied Tastes — ^The Petit Trianon — Marie Antoinette 
A Vision — The Railroad — The Arc-de-Triomphe • . . 73 

CHAPTER XII. 

Fontainebleau — The Gardens — Historical Associations — ^Napoleon taking Leave 
of the Imperial Guard — The Chateau — Abdication of Napoleon — Great Changes 
^Francis I. and Napoleon — Ambition of Loviis PMlippe — Forest of Fontaine- 
bleau — The Roche- qui-phure — Other Celebrated Rocks 79 

CHAPTER Xni. 

Saint Cloud — ^Passy — Franklin — Anecdote of M. de Richelieu — La Muette — ^M. 
Erard — Mount Valerien — Madame de Genlis — Terrace of Saint Cloud — Inter- 
view between Marie Antoinette and Mirabeau — Ville d'Avray — Lantern of Di- 
ogenes — Park of Saint Cloud — A Ball — Fireworks — Forgetfulness of the 
French 84 

CHAPTER XIV. 

The July Fetes — The Mat de Cocagne — The Parisian on the Seine — ^His Awkward- 
ness — ^Various Amusements — ^The Place de la BastiUe — Beaumarchais — Destruc- 
tion of the Bastille — Monument of July — History of an old Man — Phantoms of 
the BastiUe— The Colossal Elephant— The Revolution of July 87 

CHAPTER XV. 

Mineral Waters — The Lake d'Enghien — The Family of Montmorenci — The Vil- 
lage of Montmorenci — Rousseau — Gretry — Saint Gratien — The Marshal de Cati- 
nat — ^Eaubonne — Sannois — ^Epinay — ^Rousseau— The Forest of Montmorenci — 
imagination and Reality 92 

CHAPTER XVI. 

A Horticultural Fete — Ennui of the Flowers — The Dahlias — Useful. Flowers — 
Barbarous Latin — Nomenclature of the Roses — Vexatious Ignorance — Tulips — 
Daisies — Pansies — Flora and Pomona — Vegetables — Fruit — Flowers — Talent of 
the Parisian Ladies— The Carnations — Favorite Names 95 



CONTENTS. 7 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Page 
Music — Friendly Reunions — Madame Damoreau — Nourrit — Madame Nathan- 
Treilhet — Countess de Montenegro — Madame de Sparre — Madame Lafarge — 
French Hospitality to Foreigners — Burlesque on the Italian Operas — A beautiful 
Audience — Extraordinary Actors — Beautiful Singing — Discovery of Rossini — A 
Mistake — Burning of Babylon — Clorinda's Madness — Clorinda recovers her 
Senses — Reconciliation — Call for the Author and the Actors — The Author of 
Esmeralda — M. Monpou — Mademoiselle Pujet — Celebrated Pianists — A Family 
Concert — ^Love of the French for old Music — Wilhem — Kindness of the Parisian 
Ladies — Schlesinger — His first evening in New York — His Misfortunes — His 
Death — An Elegy written upon him by an American girl 100 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Thoughts of Home — Impossibility of describing Paris — Parisiaii Urbanity to Stran- 
gers — Paris deserted in the Month of August — The Etoiles — Banks of the Seine — 
Arrival at Rouen — Dieppe — The Dutchess de Berri — Visit of Queen Victoria to 
the Chateau d'Eu — Mademoiselle — Nan-ow Escape of the French Royal Family 
— Arrival of the Queen — Enthusiastic Reception — Fete at the Mount d'Orleans 
— Intended Paintings illustrating the Royal Visit — ^The Concert — Excitement in 
Paris whether Queen Victoria would honor that City with her Presence — ^The 
Queen's Decision — Her Departure — Parisian Society — A Puzzling Question — 
Departure from France — Death of Victor Hugo's Daughter — Sentiment and 
Business 110 



THE AMERICAN IN PARIS 

DURING THE SUMMER. 



CHAPTER I. 

LEAVING PARIS RETROSPECTION. 



I WAS preparing to leave Paris ; it was the month of April : welcome, thou 
lovely month of April, which restores to us the spring, and takes me back to my 
native land! Farewell, winter! farewell, Paris! Paris is the city of gloomy 
months, of gardens without flowers, of trees without verdure, of skies without 
sun. To enjoy Paris, you must have splendid fetes by the light of wax candles ; 
balls, concerts, plays, love, intrigues. Paris must have the angry murmur of 
politics, and the buzz of witty conversation. Paris exists especially upon little 
calumnies, private slanders, projects, romances, vaudevilles, jests — all of them 
things which belong to the winter. Take from this city the fine arts, the geni- 
uses, the popular beauties, the names of the generals who have gained such 
famous battles, the nothings of winter, the large fires on the spacious hearths, 
the drawing-rooms filled with chatting and wit, the brilliant reunions, the dia- 
monds and the floating dresses, the flowers and the pearls, and you will see what 
remains of this immense city, so populous, and so well filled ! Nothing, but those 
institutions which are common to all the nations of the world ; for instance, the 
Bourse, the Palais-de-Justice, the Chamber of Deputies, the schools, the restau- 
rateurs, the lawyers, and the manufacturers of newspapers ; all, things of the 
rarest and most exquisite interest ; all, things which I shall find again in New 
York. We must return home ; only we will take, as a remembrance of this de- 
lightful visit, the journal which we have written with so much joy; an incom- 
plete book, no doubt, but one which abounds with true sentiments, tried passions, 
and deeply-felt emotions ; a book written with the pen, and at the same time with 
the graver ; a simple tale, without pretension, without malice, without anything 
which contributes to the success of those pages upon which the crowd seize, 
that they may find food for their wicked propensities. Indeed, it was our wish 
that the four months of the last Parisian winter should be reproduced in all theu- 
native elegance. You remember that long succession of chapters, in which 
Eugene Lami, the incomparable draftsman, had difficulty in following us, while 
Mr. Heath, the eminent English engraver, could scarcely keep pace with Eugene 
Lami ? Each of us walked with a joyous step through the various smihng as- 
pects of the Parisian world, and the struggle was, which should understand them 
the best. What happy descriptions we unitedly supplied : the Arc de Triomphe, 
the Chajwps Elysees, the Cafe Tortoni, the Soiree at the Duke of Orleans', the 
Pantheon ! And the beautiful children in the Tuileries gardens, the future gen- 
eration ; and the dances in the brilliant saloons, the varied apparitions so dazzling 
and so beloved, but all vanished so quickly ! But what does it signify ? I have 



10 THE CENTRE OF FRANCE — BRITTANY — PROVENCE. 

for my consolation the lines of my countryman, Wadsworth Longfellow, the 
poet :— 

" Sweet April ! — Many a thought 

Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed, 
Nor shall they fail, till to its autumn brought, 
Life's golden fruit is shed." 

So saying, I prepared to leave. Not that, if I honestly confessed the truth, my 
resolution was immoveable ; on the contrary, the nearer the hour of departure 
approached, the more sad and undecided I felt- 
Paris may well be called the good city, for however little a traveller may be pre- 
possessed in its favor, yet when once he has penetrated some of these elegant 
mysteries, it is not without a certain anguish of heart that he resolves to leave it. 
In this vast world of Paris, there is everything to know, everything to learn, every- 
thing to guess. The whole history of France and its different provinces is en- 
closed within these formidable walls. He who was thoroughly acquainted with 
the great city of Charlemagne and of Napoleon, would be, at the same time, the 
wisest antiquarian, the greatest politician, and the best poet, in the universe. His 
book would be at once a poem equal to the Iliad of Homer, a comedy worthy 
of the master-pieces of Moliere, and a romance so wonderful, that even the Gil 
Bias of Lesage could not be compared to it. Imagine yourself placed upon 
some high mountain, whence the whole of France displays itself before you. 
At first your dazzled eyes perceive only an assemblage of confused and bound- 
less grandeur — the Alps, the mountains of Auvergne, the gloomy forests, the 
Cevennes, the Pyrenees, are only the ramparts of this kingdom, of which Paris 
is the centre. Rivers descend from these well-loved mountains : the Loire and 
the Garonne, the Saone and the Rhone ; and they flow here and there, spreading 
around them fertility and abundance. By degrees, this confused mass of inesti- 
mable wonders assumes a certain form ; by degrees, each province detaches it- 
self from this vast whole, and turns toward Paris, from which it waits, not with- 
out a secret trembling, the mighty impulse. First, we see Brittany, a country 
entirely Gallic, which has given to France many a bold and brave defender — 
many a celebrated philosopher : Duguesclin, Latour d' Auvergne, Abeilard, her 
greatest poet Chateaubriand, and her most terrible revolutionary M. de Lamen- 
nais. You recognise the rude province by her rude language, her old names of 
the ancient nobiUty, her faithfulness to the creeds of former days, the austerity 
of her manners, her indigent pride. She remembers her battles, she recalls all 
her griefs. She has taken centuries to learn the little of modern language 
which she has consented to speak. At the same time impelled toward Paris by 
that immense power which urges everything to the centre, present themselves in 
succession, Anjou, the country of the Plantagenets, who have given so many 
kings to England ; Poitou, the vast field of battle, traversed by Clovis, by Charles 
Martel, and the Black Prince ; Champagne, the country of Turenne ; Auvergne, 
which gave birth to the two Arnauds, and the lofty mountains of which still re- 
member Pascal. In its turn, comes the south, to salute the great capital ; and 
you should see how prostrate Toulouse and Bordeaux fall before Paris. You 
recognise Provence by its festive appearance, the flowers which compose its gar- 
land, the wit and poetry by which it is surrounded. It is in fact the cradle of 
all the poetry of the French nation. From the twelfth century, the Proven9aI 
troubadours have been celebrated throughout Europe ; they remodelled the lan- 
guage which they found : rebelUous as it was, they forced it to obey certain laws, 
certain harmonious rules, which practical good sense dictated to them. There, 
also, more than one great orator has commenced his career. Massillon was a 
Provencal ; Cardinal Maury was a Provencal ; and Mirabeau, the great leveller, 
whence did he appear, armed with such passions and such vengeance ? He 
sprang, as did M. Thiers, from the depths of Provence ' Such are the men 
sent to Paris by the rest of France, as soon as their genius has developed itself. 
Of such choice minds, gathered from all parts of the kingdom, is the Parisian 
city composed. The city belongs to each and to all ; few are born there, all pass 
through it, not one remains in it. Thus Dauphiny has sent to Paris Condillac 



BURGUNDY — NORMANDY — THE SEINE — CELEBRATED PARISIANS. 11 

and Admiral Lalande. You may think these taxes and tributes difficult to pay, 
and yet they are paid, by every part of France. Next you behold Lyons, re- 
membering the Romans ; and Burgundy, the country of Saint Bernard, of Bos- 
suet, of Buffon, of Bichat the physiologist, of M. de Lamartine ; and Cham- 
pagne, the home of the Villehardouins, of the sires de Joinville, of Cardinal de 
Retz. And that province worthy of being a kingdom, the subject of such inex- 
haustible history, Normandy, the country of so many wise legislators, so many 
brave soldiers, so many husbandmen. To grateful France Normandy has given 
the great Corneille, Flanders has given her Froissart and Philippe de Com- 
mines ! Where will you find a more extensive prospect ? Where a more beau- 
tiful sight ? The Seine, that river celebrated among all the rivers of the Avorld, 
would, of itself, suffice for contemplation during a whole year. Who can tell 
all the activity, all the labor, all the poetry of this great river ; all the land that 
this water fertilizes ; all the flocks that it nourishes ; all the fruits and the flow- 
ers ; all the old castles and modern houses, which it gently lulls by the sound of 
its undulating wave ? Who can tell the thousand arms that it puts in motion, 
all the wheat that it crushes under the millstone, the wool which it converts into 
cloth, the iron of which it makes ploughs and swords, and the trades which are 
incessantly pursued in its industrious billows ? On its passage, and in proportion 
as it needs more strength, the noble river summons to its aid other powerful 
livers, the Marne and the Oise, and thus it reaches Paris triumphantly, like 
those great men of whom we have just spoken. The Seine is the pride of Paris. 
The city has banished her most beautiful houses to a distance, the better to see 
its course ; she beholds herself in its waters, she plants the finest trees upon its 
shores, she builds magnificent bridges above this flood, which passes to a dis- 
tance with regret. From Paris to Havre the river flows in triumph ; every one 
salutes it when it passes ; every one blesses it. The cities, the villages, the sunny 
islands, the clocks which sound the angelus, the herds, the boatmen, the hus- 
bandmen, the soldiers, follow with a tender look the mysterious and solemn river, 
which is about to carry beyond the ocean, to the most distant shores of America, 
Videe Francaise. 

Paris, then, is the history of all the provinces, of all the men, of all the pas- 
sions of France. There, universal wit and genius have taken refuge. Between 
the porches of Notre Dame and the court of the Sainte Chapelle, has sprung up 
all the skepticism, all the citizen-like good sense, which preside over the nine- 
teenth century, after having shaken and thoroughly overturned the eighteenth. 
Do you ask what wonderful minds Paris has produced ? It has raised them all 
to its own attainments ; but besides this, it has produced him who may be called 
French genius par excellence — the comic poet, the profound philosopher, the 
ever-laughing, and yet serious Moliere ; besides Moliere, it has given you Vol- 
taire : ask no more. All the other Parisians, strictly speaking, even those who 
are born in Paris, reassume, more or less, the particular genius of some one of 
the provinces of France. For instance, D'Alembert, the head of the Encyclo- 
paedia; D'Anville, the geographer; Saint Foix, the antiquarian ; Bachaumont, 
the half-crazy poet; Bailly, the astronomer; Despreaux, with his good sense 
and satire; Bouhoxirs, the wit under the waving robe of the Jesuit; Charles 
Lebrun, the painter of Louis the Great and Alexander the Great; the clever 
Guillaume Budee; Marivaux, the historian of the fashionable world of the Re- 
gency ; Nicolas Catinat, with his courage, simplicity, and virtue ; Chardin, the 
traveller to Persia; Pierre Charron, the friend of Montaigne; La Chaussee, 
the Thespis of the weeping drama; the well-known avocat, Henri Cochin: 
these are so many children of Paris, born in the midst of the Parisian city ; but, 
nevertheless, not one of these celebrated men has the purely Parisian genius ; 
there is not one, whom it would not be easy to place in some province of France. 
They were born in Paris by chance, and because one must be born somewhere; 
but the only thoroughly Parisian geniuses are Moliere and Voltaire, each placed 
at the two extremities of French art. Besides, how few Parisians there are in 
Paris ! how few even among the princes and kings of the French monarchy, 
are bom in Paris I The Prince de Conde, however, weis born in Paris ; the 
witty Prince de Conti, the schoolfellow of Moliere, was born in Paris; the 



12 MOLIERE AND VOLTAIRE A GREAT MISTAKE. 

Other princes of the house of Bourbon were born at Versailles, at Fontainebleau, 
at Saint Germain, at Saint Cloud, at Bellevue, even at Palermo, in the kingdom 
of Sicily, everywhere except in Paris. In point of Parisians, you have the 
three Coypels, and Madame Deshoulieres, a charming Parisian of the Place 
Royale; and Dorat, the coxcomb, with too much wit; and Pierre de I'Etoile, 
the historian of the reign of Henry III. ; and the clever family of the Estiennes, 
Robert, Henri, Charles, Robert-Estienne, Henry-Estienne, the celebrated print- 
ers; true Parisians these, workmen of Paris, scholars of the Sorbonne, and the 
University of France. The worthy friend of Fenelon, the Abbe Fleury, was a 
Parisian ; the king's very witty valet-de-chambre, Dufresny, who so loved flow- 
ers, extravagance, and the fine arts, Dufresny was born in Paris, and what is 
better still, he died there, regardless of his poverty. Jean Goujon, the worthy 
rival of the best Florentine sculptors ; Helvetius, one of those empty reputations 
of which so many are made in Paris ; Houdard de la Motte, the lyric poet, as 
well as J. B. Rousseau, the Pindar of the great age, were so many children of 
Paris. Place also upon your list those names worthy of all our sympathy and 
respect ; La Harpe, the useful author of the Cours de Litterature ; M. de La- 
moignon, the honor of the ancient parliament ; M. de Malesherbes, the defender 
of King Louis XVI., who was worthy to die the death of his royal client ; 
Lancelot, the most artless and clever man of Port Royal des Champs; Lavoi- 
sier, the great chymist, to whom Robespierre's executioners would not grant 
eight days' respite, that he might finish some experiments which he had com- 
menced ; Ninon de I'Enclos, the coquettish problem, of whom so many impos- 
sible fables are told, which are simply true ; and the Marchioness de Lambert, 
But enough of this — again I repeat that, strictly speaking, in all this assemblage 
of clever minds and strong wills, there are but two real Parisians ; two men, 
who could never have been bom or died in any other city — Moliere and Vol- 
taire, the author of the Tartufe, and the author of the Essai sur les Maurs ; the 
one, the best, the most devoted, and the most simple of men ; the other, the 
most bitter, the most licentious, and the most treacherous of wits. The former, 
simple in his life, a kind, benevolent man, seeking the vices of his fellows, only 
to correct them by ridicule ; the latter, brutal, malicious, sarcastic, and exulting 
whenever he could throw in the face of the human species, all the sting of his 
mind, all the venom of his heart. The first, who employs the foolish or serious, 
but comparatively innocent scenes, of coinedy ; the second, who knows only 
of violence, wounds, bites, and stabs, and who would be veiy sorry if he cor- 
rected the smallest vice, withoxit substituting in its place some hideous mon- 
strosity. Moliere, always serious, even in his most foolish scenes ; Voltaire, 
always a clown, a cruel, pitiless clown, even in the boldest ferocities. Moliere 
who pardons, Voltaire who is merciless : Moliei^e who dares to attack religious 
hypocrisy, the most shameful and dreadful of hypocrisies ; Voltaire, the cow- 
ardly and insolent poet, who knows nothing better than to cover with mud and 
dirt, in a poem full of license, scandal, and blasphemy, the young girl who de- 
fended and saved France, the Maid of Orleans. 

And this is the city which I imagined I had seen, studied, and understood ! 
Really, because I had described some of its features in two or three hundred 
pages, I fancied myself a great politician, a profound observer, a learned anti- 
quarian. Fool that I was ! 

I have heard it very gravely told, that Lord S , one day, wished to visit 

Rome, the eternal city. He arrived in Rome in the month of January ; he re- 
mained there six months, and during the first two days, was busily occupied in 
perambulating the place. This done, he began to feel the need of rest, and 
immediately he stopped sight-seeing. Play, idleness, letters to read, letters to 
write, lounging walks in the fine weather, music in the evening, in the drawing- 
rooms, and the fetes of the banker Torlonia, made the well-filled days appear 
to him very short. He already forgot that he was in Rome, a foreigner and 
even a heretic, when suddenly arrived the hour of departure. Important in- 
terests recalled our traveller to the upper house, of which he is one of the 
most silent members. Already the post-chaise was standing beneath the win- 
dows, the horses neighed, the postillion cracked his whip, the passers-by stopped 



ST. Peter's at rome — victor hugo. 13 

to look, the young flower girl of the street, the beautiful black-eyed Transteve- 
rine, with her bold step, and proud, but yet graceful look, held in readiness, her 

farewell nosegay. At that moment, Lord S thought he would open his 

album, to see if he had omitted anything in his projected travels. He found 
that he had omitted nothing, or almost nothing ; only, in the midst of a blank 
page, the father of the young lord had written in large letters, ^'■Do not for get to 
visit St. Peter^s at Romey But our traveller had entirely forgotten the basilic 
and the dome of Michael Angelo, and the frescoes of Raphael, and all that vast 
and inestimable treasure of Christian art. 

Lord S was much vexed; but what should he do? He was the more 

embarrassed, because he had yet to take leave of a beautiful Venetian lady in 
the neighborhood. Then, bravely coming to a decision — " John," said .he to 
his valet, " go quickly, and visit a church called Saint Peter's at Rome, and on 
the road you can tell me what I ought to think of it." 

You laugh, my reader ; nevertheless, such is my position in the midst of this 
Paris, of which we have scarcely seen the surface. In very deed, on the point 
of finishing my delightful task, the blood rushes to my face, at the mere thought 
of the great things which I have forgotten. I now, at the moment of my de- 
parture, understand that Paris is the kingdom, the history of France : it is the 
heart of this great body ; it is the universal rendezvous of all the passions, all 
the remembrances, all the ideas, of this noble people. From these ramparts, 
which are raised so hastily, as if such a world needed citadels to defend itself, 
issues the movement of each day — thence come submissions and tumults ; Paris 
is the deadly cloak, which contains in one of its enormous folds, peace and war ! 
Seek only in Paris, the genius of this people, the eloquence of the Burgundian, 
the irony of the Champagnese, the warlike courage of the Lorrainese, the bold 
and sincere self-will of the Franche Comtian, the fanaticism of the Languedo- 
cian, the sharp petulance of the Gascon, the conquering spirit of the Norman, 
the careless indolence of the Fleming, the obstinacy of the Breton. Paris is 
the vast sea, in which mingle the various living and deep sources of French 
mind. United in the common centre, all these different men recognise, observe, 
and study each other, until well assured that they are the children of the same 
country. In vain, when the Fleming is in Flanders, does he remember Ger- 
many ; in vain, when the Gascon is at Bordeaux, does he think of Spain ; in 
vain, when the Provencal is in Provence, does he recall Italy ; all these remem- 
brances — which are not regrets — vanish as they enter Paris, and those who once 
indulged them, become French; just as the rivers lose their own existence, in 
mingling with the ocean, and thenceforth form a part of the ocean itself. Unity 
is the mother of Paris ; she is its boulevard, its mighty power. Unity has pro- 
duced the beautiful French language, the polished society, the court of so many 
brave, acute, benevolent kings. Unity is the mother of the academies, the 
schools, the theatres, the powerful works, the ever-recurring revolutions which 
leave Paris daily, to impose their laws upon the rest of France. What a mad- 
man then was I, who thought to enclose this great epic machine within the 
covers of a volume in octavo ! Then I began to recall that merry pleasantry, 
so completely French, the Ouverture de Don Juan of Mozart, arranged for two 
flagelets. Without M. Eugene Lami, my painter, and Mr. Heath, his worthy 
translator, I should have thrown my manuscript to the winds, you may rest 
assured. 

And besides, said I to myself, what strange Paris hast thou been studying? 
The Paris of nosegays and velvet, the Paris of balls, of the Opera, and the Ital- 
ian boulevards ! The dull city, made up of deputies, dancers, poets of the 
French Academy, monuments of yesterday ; nothing romantic, nothing curious, 
nothing which recalls past times, any more than the savage and picturesque 
manners of former days. Ah ! it is not thus, like a happy well-dressed man, 
whom everything obeys, and who walks much less than he drives, that the au- 
thor of Notre Dame de Paris has viewed the great and turbulent city which it 
has been my wish to describe. Ah ! it is not thus — in perfect indifference, in 
the midst of a gilded saloon, or upon the threshold of some fashionable restau- 
rateur — that the terrible poet has studied the city of his adoption and of his 



14 LOVE OF THE HORRIBLE ANCIENT PARIS. 

love ! No, no, he would never consent to follow on foot, the children playing in 
the walks of the Tuileries, the soldiers whom the king reviews in the court of 
the Carrousel, the peers of France walking under the trees of the Luxembourg. 
Fy ! he pass through these beautiful gardens, adorned with flowers, water, and 
singing- birds ! He lose his time over the happy spectacle of the boulevards, 
where the loveliest crowd passes and repasses in its most elegant dress I He 
amuse himself in the streets brilliant with light, and washed at every hour of 
the day ! You do not suppose it, Americans as you are ! No, no, this is not 
the Paris of M. Hugo ; he must have the Paris of mud and darkness, of the 
pillory, and the Cour des Miracles, the Paris of gipsies, and thieves, and gal- 
lows. Let people murder, and cut one another's throats ; let the king on one 
side, and the people on the other, abandon themselves to every kind of violence, 
this is what suits the taste of this wild poet ; murders, blows, mud, drunken sol- 
diers, priests enervated by luxury ; all these disgraceful things, and in the midst 
of the most menacing phrensy, the river which caiTies lank living corpses in a 
sack; in a word. La justice du roi qui passe, this is the true sight, the real Paris. 
The rest is void of interest, the rest belongs to the citizen, to the National 
Guard, to the Chamber of Deputies, to the prefect of police, to the manufac- 
turers of asphalte and bitumen pavements. Fy I The lighted gas, which robs 
the night of its profound darkness — can you think of it ? The brilliant shops 
filled with valuables, protected only by a slight glass which a mere nothing would 
break — can you think of it ? Where is the beautiful, where is the picturesque, 
where is the wonderful in all this ? Let us cover our heads, and submit — the 
good King Louis XI. is dead! 

And yet this is the city, which M. Hugo and the architects in his suite, would 
fain rebuild ! How many tears shed, upon these frightful ruins which no longer 
exist ! What would they not give, to recall these ancient scenes? Dark hous- 
es, passages without air, an entire absence of the sun, thieves in every street, 
hungry wolves at each gate of the city, anguish everywhere, hope returned to 
Heaven, which refuses again to restore it to the earth. Long life then to the 
black, gothic, muddy, feverish city ; the city of darkness, and disorder, and vio- 
lence, and murder, and misery ! 

Nevertheless, from the height of his elevation, with his arms crossed upon his 
chest, the poet admires, at his ease, this beautiful, marvellous Paris of the fif- 
teenth century, his passion and his dream. Come, we will be younger by some 
hundreds of years ! Paris, which was at first only an island, crossed the Seine 
with the kings of the first race ; Philip-Augustus long afterward built walls and 
fortresses, around which all sorts of houses raised themselves — melancholy, deep, 
above all high, pressed one against the other, like houses which are afraid, and 
shrink into nothing, to escape from the tyrant. Not one open square, not one 
street, in which two can pass abreast ; no air, no sun. Were not these men very 
happy, and very well lodged? However, by degrees they quit the masses of ill- 
shaped stones, the gloomy houses exposed to the weather, which nothing enters 
except the rain of heaven ; they dare to look at the sun ; but alas ! they must 
take care not to go too far, for in default of enemies beyond, the city itself is 
full of ambuscades and slavery ; for in this miserable place, all kinds of privi- 
leges, powers, and usurpations, dispute with each other, the ownership of the 
body and the possession of the soul. Look carefully, and you will recognise 
these different powers, by their prisons, their citadels, their fortresses, their dun- 
geons, their convents, their various jurisdictions. The Grand-Chatelet, the 
Petit-Chatelet, the Tournelle, the Tour de Nesle, the Tour des Bois, the Lou- 
vre, the Hotel-de-Ville, the Sorbonne, the Pre-aux-Clercs, the Palais de Jus- 
tice, and to crown the whole thing properly, the gibbet of Montfaucon. Oh, 
what a beautiful and touching sight ! And at each entrance of the city, a tower, 
a fortress, a bastille, the tower de Billy, de Saint-Antoine, the tower of the Tem- 
ple, the tower Saint-Martin, Saint-Denis, Montmartre, Saint-Honore. Each 
tower has its fosse, each fosse its armed soldiers and its liquid mud ; when night 
comes, everything it closed and barricaded ; chains are laid in the river .... 
oh, it was charming and delightful to see ! it was not a city, it was a labyrinth, 
or better still, it was a net, to make use of an expression that M. Hugo has bor- 



STRANGE THINGS — THE PICTURESQUE. t$ 

rowed from some honest woman ; in fact, an inextricable net ; each mesh was a 
street, and all these numberless streets crossed each other, mingled, and were so 
confused, one within the other, that you would have supposed it a dance of 
witches, on some festival night. Streets — count them ! spires, domes, bridges, 
banks, strands, rivulets, chapels, churches, banners — count them, count them ! 
There was nothing but gables, pointed roofs, dungeons, arabesques, fantastical 
towers, dwarfs and giants, whims, fancies, and deformities. The old roofs were 
covered with a yellowish moss, blackened lead, or half-broken slate. You would 
have said, to see them from a distance, on stormy days, that these sharp, pointed 
stones were about to fight, to wrestle, to destroy each other. As for the Seine, 
that sparkling stream, it disappeared beneath the houses, the filth, the bridges, 
laden with wretched cabins. In the streets, the uproar was frightful ; scholars, 
artisans, washerwomen, old soldiers, uttered, each in his own way, the cry of 
his profession ; without reckoning the all-powerful and respected monks, before 
whom suddenly fell back the whole mob ; the Bernardines, the Genovefians, the 
Mathurins, the Benedictines, the Cordeliers, the Augustines ; each of them 
having his tower, his justice, his prison, his church, his chapel, and his bles- 
sing, to bestow upon the heads which bow as they pass before him. And the 
churches, who can count them ? Saint Jacques de la Boucherie, Saint Jacques 
du haut Pas, Saint Magloire, Notre Dame des Champs, Saint Germain des Pres; 
and the pillory, and the tile-kiln, and the public oven, and the lazaretto ; for to 
all the singular beauties we have already named, you must add the leper. You 
have also large hotels occupied by insolent and merciless noblemen ; the hotel 
de Jouy, the hotel de Sens, the hotel Barbeau, and the hotel des Tournelles, 
and the hotel Saint Paul, where dwelt as many as twenty-two princes, each as 
powerful as a king. There were also the hotels of the Abbe de St. Maur, du 
Petit Muce, du Comte d'Etampes, and each of these hotels had its bravos, its 
stronghold, its large prison, its fortifications. Towers, battlements, and terror! 
Arrows, little bells, weathercocks, spiral staircases, tuiTCts, flags ; and do you see 
that accumulated mass of black towers, where the drawbridge is always raised, 
the portcullis always lowered ? It is the Bastille, surrounded by cannon. And 
all this, bounded by ditches, walls, ravines, gibbets, extended chains — by monks 
and executioners — by cemeteries, filled with the dead — by sewers and sepulchres 
— by holes in which live recluses — by intersections of houses, blind alleys, 
mazes, crossways — by large muddy places, inhabited by beggars, a horrible na- 
tion, the different names of which were as horrible as its language; cripples, the 
humpbacked, the lame, the maimed, impostors, lepers ; bellowings, clappings, 
shoutings — in a word, the Cour des Miracles. The Cour des Miracles, that 
Pandaemonium, that hideous sewer, that collection of all the refuse which the 
church, the university, the city, the Jews, the Spaniards, the Mahomedans, and 
the so-called Christians, could produce. There, each province, each people, 
each misery, each vice, has, most certainly, its faithful representative. Such was 
the decoration ; such were the actors ; houses of mud, comedians of the most 
depraved character. And yet great contemporary minds have tried to prove to 
us, that this was beautiful Paris ! They ridicule the well-paved, brilliantly-light- 
ed city, So carefully guarded, and so well washed every morning. Stupid Pa- 
risians of 1843 and some preceding years, who prefer a good municipal guard to 
the footmen of Clopin Trouillefou, king of Tunis, successor of the great 
Coesre ; ungrateful citizens, who sleep more quietly under the prefect of police, 
M. Delessert, than under the surveillance of Mathias Hungadi Spicali, duke of 
Egypt and Bohemia! O justice ! for an honest fireman, waiting to throw him- 
self into the midst of the flames, this Paris citizen would, without hesitation, 
give up Guilliame Rousseau, emperor of Galilee, and his archisuppdts ! The 
picturesque ! when you have said that, you have said all. Art, taste, fireside 
comfort, the peace of the domestic roof, the gentle warmth of a well-closed 
house, the friendly chatting by the bright fire, the clear glass which suffers the 
light of day to enter without admitting the cold, the Aubusson carpet under 
your feet, the walls covered with beautiful engravings, the well-bound, well-chos- 
en books ; the child who bids you good-day, the dog who jumps upon you, the 
young, well-dressed servant, the eager valet, the threshold of the door so clean 



Jg THE PICTURESQUE POWER OF IMAGINATION. 

and well guarded, the quiet street, the public place overshadowed by fine trees, 
the Greve without a scaffold, Montfaucon without the gallows, the king's hotel 
without a drawbridge ; in the churches, prayers, instead of blasphemies ; in the 
body-guards, honest soldiers, and not night-robbers; on the tlirone a constitu- 
tional king, the promoter of peace, the enemy of war, the happy and respected 
father of "a delightful family, and not a tyrant stained with blood ; in the shops, 
sworn citizens, electors, national guards, who judge, and govern, and defend them- 
selves, and not slaves, obeying, at the same time, the nobleman, the bishop, the 
city, the university, the monks, their wives, and the whole world. What is the 
use of all this happiness, which has no distinctive features ? All such details 
of happy life have the great misfortune of not being picturesque ; the pictu- 
resque is the rags under which the poor wretches shiver, and not the prosaic 
cloak which shelters from wind and rain ; the picturesque is the naked foot, the 
ill-combed hair, the panting chest, the miserable look, the soiled velvet coat, the 
dirty brocaded dress. Do not tell us of a beautiful cheek, washed and blush- 
ing ; but of skin, the very touch of which seems poisonous ; do not tell us of 
pretty, little, delicate hands, but of large, coarse, hard ones. A citizen who 
pays taxes, is so ridiculous ! Tell us, on the contrary, of beggars, of subjects 
in the kingdom of argot, of the free citizens of the kingdom of Tunis, who have 
neither to pay for cleansing, nor lighting, nor the poor. And the well-dressed 
ladies, who take their lovely children to the Tuileries gardens, to walk under the 
blossoming chestnut-trees, can you compare them to the female beggars, Col- 
lette la Charonne, Elizabeth Trouvain, Simone Jodouyne, Marie Piedebou, 
Thonne la Longue, Berarde Fanouel, Michelle Genaille, Clavide Rouge Oreille, 
Mathurine Giroron, Isabeau la Thierree — do not these names sound well, is not 
this all real ? 

Most certainly, a powerful imagination was necessary, not only to invoke the 
ancient Paris of King Philip-Augustus, and of King Louis XL, in all its ugli- 
ness, but still more to render supportable, to an attentive look, this darkness 
piled upon barbarism. And what a mind was necessary, to declare that the 
Paris of Charles X., and of Louis-Philippe, was only the ill-shaped and discol- 
ored shadow of the Paris of former days I Fy ! if you will believe the king 
of the picturesque, the city of the Parisians is now only plaster ; they change 
their houses just as they change their old clothes, and put on new. If by 
chance they determine to raise some monument, which is not to be an edifice 
of plaster or wood, look seriously at this monument when once it is built, and 
see if you can find anything more ridiculous. The Pantheon is a cake from 
Savoy; the palace of the Legion d'Honneur a palace of pastry ; the Halle aux 
Bleds, a cap, and better still, the cap of an English jockey ! What are these 
two large clarinets, surmounted by a crooked stick of menacing size ? They 
are the towers of Saint Sulpice, and their top the telegraph. To what archi- 
tecture does the Bourse belong? is it Roman, or is it Grecian? Really, those 
people are very obliging who pronounce it a fine building. As for the best 
streets in Paris, where the inhabitant of the city walks so peaceably and so 
proudly, the Parisian has never been more absurdly foolish than in admiring 
these vast openings, filled with air, motion, space, and sim. For instance, can 
you imagine anything more tiresome than the Rue de Rivoli, where you may 
walk without wetting your feet, where you are sheltered from the rain in winter, 
and the dust in summer, where the most splendid shops vie with each other, in 
offering you the treasures of the world, where the garden of the Tuileries dis- 
plays its most smiling appearance, while at your right, the Arc de Triomphe de 
I'Etoile rises in all its majesty? But what is the use of interfering with the 
fancies of poets ? The historical paradox has never had more intrepid defen- 
ders. Innocent and courageous men ! if you press them closely, they will main- 
tain (always aiming at the picturesque) that it is a great pity that men are no 
longer broken on the wheel, on the place de Greve, or hanged at Montfaucon ; 
and that the old church of St. Germain I'Auxerrois, now so silent, and in such 
good order, no longer tolls from time to time, the funeral knell of St. Bartholo- 
mew ! 



PARIS A VAST INN — POWER OP THE MODISTES. 17 

CHAPTER II. 

1740—1840. 

Thus indignant was 1, with these paradoxes in favor of times past, for if the 
fifteenth century is worthy of so much admiration and praise, most certainly we, 
who so much admire the present century, who pay to it such homage, who pub- 
lish such elegant books in its praise, must be simpletons and ninnies. Never- 
theless, without' going back so far as Philip-Augustus, perhaps it would not 
have been unworthy of a real traveller and his conscience, to inform himself, at 
least, as to the state of Paris in the last century. The age of Voltaire and 
Louis XV., of Louis XVI. and the National Convention, doubtless deserves 
our attention and our respect ; it was the liberal and turbulent age which so 
much assisted America, which gave her General Lafayette, which restored her 
great citizen Franklin, better instructed in the various movements, passions, and 
interests of Europe. On this account, the Paris of which I speak, ought to 
interest us children of America, much more than modern Paris. And besides, 
was not last century the century of elegance, of the fine arts, oi fashionable 
vices easily overlooked, of innocent rebellions, the century of the Encyclopaedia 
and the Social Contract? Yes, I now feel conscious that I ought, above all, to 
have set myself to the study of this vanished society, so that my New York 
friends, for whom this book was written, finding in it all the high-sounding 
names, which are even more familiar with us, than they are in France, might 
recall former hopes and struggles. An American in Paris ! Unhappy man ! 
How little of Paris did I see ! And if I could not see all, in the short visit I at 
first contemplated, why did I not extend it, that I might devote more time to 
this long study ? 

Imagine this great capital, some years before the French Revolution ; — the 
court is still at Versailles, the people are masters of the city ; — in this immense 
crowd you will find living samples of every nation in the world. From the 
heart of Asia, and the snows of Lapland, men have come, expressly to study 
this civilization which pervades everything. The Arab, the Hottentot, the In- 
dian, the Negro, the Persian, the Brahmin, the Faquir, the Greenlander, are all 
represented in this vast inn, open to all ; and once within these inspiring walls, 
all these people change their appearance ; intelligence comes to them through 
every pore. No sooner have they arrived, than they begin to study, to under- 
stand, to hear, to know : nothing of their original nature remains to them, ex- 
cept their dress and some few childish customs. This is the sense in which it 
may be said, that intelligence circulates in the streets. Intelligence circulates 
in the streets, just like air and water, and noise, and the smoke of the tall chim- 
neys ; and by its side, walks science with a rapid step. Paris is particularly the 
city, in which the most common and the most difficult sciences are equally 
taught. A verse of Virgil will occupy a professor for a week ; an hour will be 
sufficient for another man to explain to you the whole mechanism of the hu- 
man frame ; this one passes his life in analyzing bodies ; that one loses his mind 
in analyzing ideas. Next to teaching, the great curiosity of these people is the 
theatre ; there they unite, there they become excited to overturn everything ; 
there they revive their passions when they have subsided ; there they caper like 
young men, and meditate like old ones ; the theatre is the great joy and the 
great pride of the French nation, which has not yet been called to give its opin- 
ion upon the affairs of the world. Until the year of liberty, 1789, Paris had no 
place of free discussion, except the pit of the theatre, or the midst of the cafe 
Procope ; but he would have been a most imprudent man, who had dared to 
impose silence on the Parisians, in these two retrenchments. 

After the manufacture of plays (and this is the case even at the present day), 
the great manufacture of Paris, the most active, the most powerful, — indeed in- 
vincible, — the excellent, transitory production, always new in the morning, and 
always sacrificed in the evening, was the new fashions. The Parisian fashions 
have done more for the popularity and universality of France, than even the 

2 



IS THE GARRET AND THE MANSARD — FORTUNE-HUNTERS. 

Frencla language. The modistes of the Rue Vivienne conquer more rebellious 
spirits, than the most beautiful verses of the greatest poets, or the prose of the 
boldest inventors. A little gauze, a cap, a flower, a ceinture, a bonnet, a knot 
of riband, a waving feather, a dress, a shoe, a pair of gloves, — here is enough to 
stop more than one war, which would have been interminable without the inter- 
vention of European coquetry. And then the Paris of a hundred years ago, 
was, without contradiction, more amusing than modern Paris, from the invinci- 
ble power of contrast. Now no one is rich in Paris, but at the same time, no 
one is poor. You would be troubled to find men in rags, but you would be 
equally troubled to find them in embroidered coats. All the inhabitants of this 
great city, all without exception, have a carriage at their command ; the omni- 
bus, that moving island, which for a very small sum incessantly perambulates ev- 
ery quarter of Paris ; but then, on the other hand, there is not a single danseuse at 
the opera, who has any other carriage than the omnibus. The different stations 
allow themselves nearly the same luxury. In what house, for instance, will yoii 
not find a Venitian mirror, a China vase, lace from Mahnes, an Italian painting, 
one of Erard's pianos ? Where will you not find the productions of America, of 
Africa, of Asia, of every part of the world. Necessaries are for all, superflui- 
ties for none. Do you speak of the picturesque ? The eighteenth century was 
the age for the picturesque. There was then, under the roof of every house, a 
hole, burning in summer, freezing in winter, and in this hole usually lived the 
poet, the politician, the Utopian dreamer, the philosopher, the artist, — those 
mendicants of art and science. But since then, these mendicants have come 
down to the first floor, where they think themselves much more suitably accom- 
modated. The picturesque has lost in this, but equality has gained. The garret 
is never pleasant nor beautiful, except at the age of twenty ; at that age it does 
not interfere with the slight attachments, the poetical fancies, the inspiration 
which animates and even colors misery ; twenty years later, the garret makes the 
noblest hearts bad ; the most benevolent, malicious ; believers, skeptical ; the 
loving, indifferent ; the bravest, cowardly ; the boldest, timid. There are no 
garrets in the modern houses ; this is good legislation and good morality ; only 
instead of the garret, they build pretty and very inhabitable mansards. The 
mansard is a first floor, placed under the roof; with the same luxury, the same 
riches, the same ornaments. What a vast and immense city is this Paris, filled, 
agitated, skeptical, and furious ! " I would burn it,^' said Peter the Great, " if I 
were king of France.''^ Admirable and prophetical words, when it was written 
that sooner or later, this immense head would involve the fall of the great body ! 
Around Paris are extended, like so many open pits, all kinds of stone quar- 
ries, where the workman has not left a single piece to pick up ; — from these 
profound caverns Paris has come out whole. You may judge of the extent of 
the city, by the depth of the abyss whence it has sprung, and vice versa. And 
to think of studying all these stones in so short a visit as mine ! 

Without going back more than a hundred years, each man in this immense 
city, had his coat, his badge, his look, his character, which was peculiar to him- 
self, just as each artisan had his banner, each tradesman's company its rallying 
word. This active and turbulent crowd was met each moment, by all kinds of 
gentlemen, who had come to seek their fortune in Paris, no longer finding it 
either at home, or at the court ; they entered the city by the forty-five barriers 
raised at the expense of the farmers of the public revenue, who thus compelled 
more than one laborer to reside in Paris. Once arrived, each took up his abode, 
according to the money in his purse, or the whim of the moment — in the fau- 
bourg du Roule, in the Rue Blanche, at the barriere des Martyrs, at Belleville, 
at Saint Mande, on the boulevard Saint Jacques, at Sevres — wherever lodgings 
were cheap, wherever they could patiently watch the growing of the trees, and 
listen to the singing of the birds! The boldest among these honest fortune- 
hunters dwelt in one of the islands of the Seine, the knights of Saint Louis in 
the island of Notre Dame, the petitioners in the city; but all avoided, as much 
as possible, the quay of the hospital. Poor men ! lost in this abyss, they knew 
not what to do, what to become ; every door was closed against them, every 
house was forbidden to them ; they exhaled I know not what odor of ruin and 



FAVORITE RESOKTS — THE OLD NOBILITY. 1!^ 

misery, wMch sun-ounded them like a solitude. And yet it was necessary to 
repair once or twice a week to Versailles, to pay court to the king, or to salute 
the ministers. Poor men! anything like trade was forbidden them, under 
penalty of losing caste ; thus they would have thought themselves dishonored, 
if they had set foot upon the slate wharf, or the corn wharf, upon the wharft 
devoted to the sale of coals, cider, wood, iron, hay, fish, or salt. Some of them, 
however, when they met devoted friends, gray or black musqueteers, would al- 
low themselves to be led to the wine or tobacco wharf. In the savory smoke of 
the never-ending matelot, which is made in these favorite resorts for wine and 
good cheer at a cheap rate, the poor wretches forgot their ruined castles, their 
uncultivated lands, their children without clothes, their daughters without hus- 
bands, and their idle Penelopes who were hoping for their return. 

Or else our gentlemen, discouraged, and loudly denouncing the reigning 
ministry, commenced visiting the curiosities of Paris ; the pump on the Pont 
Notre Davie, the Samaritaine, the Machine de Chaillot, the Aqueduc d'Arcueil, 
and by degrees, after walking, dreaming, and sighing aloud, they ended by 
thoroughly knowing the eleven hundred and nine streets, the hundred and 
twenty bhnd alleys, the eighty-two passages, the seventy-five places, and the five 
hundred and fifty hotels, in the city. They had a walk for each day in the 
week. Monday they spent in the garden of the Arsenal, which still remember- 
ed M. de Sully, the best friend and most faithful servant of Henry the Great ; 
Tuesday, in the garden of the Apothecaries, where grew the choicest of flow- 
ers ; AVednesday, in the park de Mousseaux — Mousseaux, that spacious park, 
celebrated for mysterious and foolish adventures, fabulous anecdotes, and im- 
possible meetings ; Thursday belonged to the garden of the Luxembourg ; and 
the following days were spent at the Jardin des Plantes ; at the Champs Ely- 
sees, in the Allee des Veuves, or the Cours la Reine ; and in the Champ de 
Mars ; as for the garden of the Palais E-oyal, our gentlemen were there at 
all hours, but especially at mid-day, to hear the cannon fire. 

You will easily understand, that if there were in Paris at that time, so many 
poor fellows without money, and almost without asylum, there were also in this 
city of equality, the largest fortunes. No one can now imagine, even in France, 
what it was, in the palmy days of the monarchy, to be a king of France, or 
simply a great lord. He who spoke of a duke and peer, spoke of a man who 
possessed four or five dutchies, two or three millions of rent, and estates as large 
as a province. This nobleman considered it to be one of the duties of his sta- 
tion, to spend more than his revenue ; for his vassals, his servants, the gentle- 
men in attendance upon him, the convents founded by his family, the churches 
which contained the tombs of his ancestors, had equal claims upon his fortune 
with himself. Moreover, it was by no means the same kind of life as that of 
the present day. Recall the wars, the battles, the long sieges, and on their re- 
turn, the fetes, the pleasures, the amusements — the elegancies of which appear 
to us now, as so many fables. The chase, for instance ; how nearly is this 
amusement abolished ! how almost forgotten is this passion once so strong ! 
His majesty. King Charles X., took with him into exile, that which yet 
remained in France of former luxury. The people of 1830 made an in- 
cursion, gun in hand, into the royal forests ; for once they thoroughly en- 
joyed them ; the beautiful pheasant, the flying purple which throws gold 
and azure into the air — the deer, that timid and charming race — the stags of 
seven years old, the pride of the forest, fell beneath the blows of the conquer- 
ors of a Avhole dynasty. I know one man who is a great huntsman, and at the 
same time a moderate revolutionary. He troubles himself very little about the 
reigning king, but has all his life been interested in anything which concerned 
hunting. While all Paris seemed inclined to fight, our friend went out softly, 
and reached the forest of Compiegne ; the king had just fled ; the family of the 
old Bourbons had bade adieu to its last domain; the forest was once more 
silent ; the happy sportsman brought down at his pleasure the richest game ; as 
he saw these brilliant tenants of the forest pass before him, and fall, uttering 
cries of alann, the intrepid poacher was overpowered with joy ; he was so hap- 
py, that he thought himself the plaything of a dream. While he was thus ea- 



go FOREST OF COMPIEGNE — THE ROYAL ALMANAC. 

gaged, all old guard — who could but ill understand why the king had set out 
with so much haste from Compiegne — seeing this murder, yes, that is the 
word, at last summoned courage, and advancing with a military air, " By 
what right," said he, " do you hunt the king's game ?" — " The king," replied 
the sportsman, "is the people, now I am of the people, therefore I am the king." 
So saying, he brought down the finest stag in the forest. 

Immense forest of Compiegne ! never disturbed at this day, except when, 
from time, some young prince in the family of the king of the French — when 
he is not absent in his father's seiTice, when he is not at the African war, or on 
the distant seas — allows himself to let loose the hounds in these gloomy depths; 
then the forest, aroused for a moment, thinks itself restored to its former days 
of happiness ; echo repeats with delight the barking of the dogs, the sound of 
the horn ; eager youths join the train of the sportsmen ; for a moment the old 
passion reappears ; but it is with these transitory huntsmen as with the master 
of the buck-hounds in the forest of Fontainebleau; an invisible phantom! 
which causes far more alarm than real mischief, to the game in the forest. 

At the present day, then, allusion is scarcely made to such amusements as 
these, except in the Royal Almanac of former times. Perhaps you would not 
be sorry to know what becomes of the old almanacs. To a philosophical travel- 
ler, an old almanac is a prolific source of morality, wisdom, and learning. 

In these little books, which each year carries off, just as the wind of autumn 
carries away the leaves of the forest, you will find, expressed in the simplest 
terms, all the grandeur and all the vanities of the world. Do you know any- 
thing more lamentable to read, than the almanacs which contain the most 
glorious names of this house of Bourbon, which has not its equal under the 
sun ? To each of these names before which the earth bows, the French might 
ie\)\y, died upon the scaffold! The king? the queen? Madame Elizabeth of 
France ? died upon the scaffold ! After these august names, the royal almanac 
inscribed upon its proud list, all the great dignitaries of the church and the court, 
the cardinds, the archbishops, the bishops, the lay abbots — beheaded, robbed, 
banished, crushed beneath the wrecks of the temple and the altar ! Then came 
the parliaments, the supreme courts, the members of the royal household, the 
king's secretaries to the number of nine hundred, who were enjoined to be faith- 
ful amanuenses ! After which shone out most brilliantly the royal order, the 
noblest and most admired of the orders of Europe, with those of the Garter and 
the Golden Fleece, the order of the Holy Ghost and the order of Saint Louis, 
and those of Saint Lazarus, of Jenisalem, and of Notre Dame du Mont Car- 
mel, and that of Saint Michel, which was instituted by Louis XL, a plebeian 
and citizen knighthood, like the king who founded it. 

What excitement there was, at that time, about occupying but one line of 
the royal almanac, and what anxiety to know on what page, and on what part 
of the page, they were to be placed ! Important battles, of which the sovereign 
judge, next to the king, was M. Cherin, a man who knew the ascendants and 
the descendants, the children and the kindred of all the noble families in France, 
at least as far back as Adam ! No one was skilful or bold enough to ask an in- 
justice of M. Cherin ; he gave to each and to all exactly the authority and re- 
spect to which they were entitled. This one, named yesterday, scarcely obtain- 
ed from M. Cherin the title of Messire ; at the most they were addressed as M. 
le chevalier, M. Vecuyer. Those who had been lately ennobled, were the lowest 
upon the ladder of nobility ; then came, already more important in the peerage 
of France, the members of the twelve parliaments of the kingdom, of the court 
of exchequer, the court of aids, and the cour des monnaies, the masters of re- 
quests, the great bailiffs, generals, governors, military lieutenants-general. If 
you aspired to the highly-envied honor of riding, for once in your life, in the 
king's carriages, which would give you a right to follow the king to the hunt, 
and to be presented at court, M. Cherin would demand proofs of your nobility, 
certain, authentic, uninterrupted proofs, from the year 1400 at least. Were 
you happy enough to trace your ancestors back another century, M. Cherin 
would give you a low bow into the bargain. When the question was about 
things less important than riding in the king's carriages, there was not so much 



THE OLD MISER — VALUABLE HOARDS. {jl 

Strictness exercised. For instance, to be a page of the great or little Mews, to 
be a page of the bedchamber to the king, nay, even to the Duke d'Orleans, the 
Prince de Conde, or the Duke de Penthievre, only two hundred years of nobility 
were requisite. 

At that time dress made a great distinction among men. Now the black coat 
is the universal one ; master and servant wear nearly the same. Formerly, 
there were as many different costumes, as there were different professions, and 
almost as many as men. Royalty had made of the slightest distinctions, so 
manv privileges ; witness the close coat worn by warrant of Louis XIV.; wit- 
ness'^the red heels of the GEil-de-Boeuf. The use of the red-heeled shoe was 
restricted to the highest noblemen, dukes, counts, and marquises ; some barons 
might wear it, but not all. The whole history of France in the brightest days of 
the monarchy, would be found, by him who understands how to read it, in the 
royal almanac. 

The copy of which I speak — and which I take back to my native land, to 
show my fellow-citizens, in how small a space can be contained royal majesty, 
with all that it has most pompous and magnificent — still bears the arms of the 
royal family of France, the fleurs-de-lis surrounded by the collar of the order 
of the Holy Ghost. This book, sparkling with gold and heraldic emblems, I 
bought for threepence on the parapet of the Pont Neuf, from among the heap 
of literary dirt, on which rain, sun, dust, and the northeast wind incessantly 
beat, as if the more quickly to overcome this vile refuse of the human mind. 
This, then, is the misery for which thou wast reserved, poor royal almanac, 
fallen from the throne with thy master ! Thou art now only a name, a frag- 
ment, a wreck, of the silken vanities of former times. An old worm-eaten book! 
and yet this worm-eaten book has been the manual of the king and his nobles; 
at the court of Versailles, it was consulted night and day ; the curious people 
learned in these now faded pages, the names, titles, and dwellings, of their mas- 
ters. All were found there, from the princes of the blood down to the criers at 
the Chatelet. If you were not in the royal almanac, you were nothing, you 
could be nothing ; you had scarcely a name for your baker and your butcher. 
And yet equality commenced even with the royal almanac; in that, no one oc- 
cupied more space than his neighbor ; the recorder had his line just like the 
first president ; the police officer with his short dress just like the gentleman of 
the bedchamber. In Fontenelle's opinion, it was the book which contained the 
greatest number of truths ; and it was in the hands of all. It told the position 
of each and of all ; thanks to its pages you knew the courtier with whom you 
were connected ; whence any man came, who he was, what he was, what he 
was worth. Mercier called the royal almanac the vampires^ almanac. 

There recently died, in a lone house of an obscure street at Fontainebleau, a 
wretched woman, nearly a hundred years old ; this woman lived on brown bread 
and unwholesome water, and was covered with tatters. The rivulet of the street 
became more muddy when she ventured to cross it — the smell of the sewer more 
poisonous. It was dreadful to see the abominable creature, thus crawling along 
in the filthy attire of the most abject avarice. Her house was not a house, but 
a fortress, built of freestone, cemented by iron plates ; for in it were contained 
immense riches. There this miserable being, with whom neither alms nor char- 
ity had anything in common, either to give or receive, had heaped, not only gold, 
diamonds, and pearls, but the choicest furniture, the most exquisite marbles, the 
rarest paintings, the most charming master-pieces of every art. The smoky hole 
in which this woman, on Sunday, cooked her food for the whole week, contained 
the finest and most delicate chefs d'oeuvre of the Flemish masters ; the Dutch 
enchanters, the joyous fairs of Teniers, the elegant scenes of Van den Berg, the 
whims, caprices, and beautiful countenances of Gerard Dow; more than one 
simple and whimsical drama of Jan Steen's, more than one beautiful heifer of 
Paul Potter's, more than one fresh and glowing landscape of Hobbima's, more 
than one sweetly-lighted forest of Cuyp's or of Ruysdaal's ! 

These beautiful works, which had been the ornaments of the palaces of 
Marly, of the great and little Trianon, or at least of the galleries in the Palais 
JElojal, were dying for want of air and sun. Smoke, cold, and time, which 



22 INCONGRUITIES — REVERSES OF FORTUNE. 

consumes everything, overpowered with their formidable teints, the splendid col- 
ors, which but lately had rivalled the wonders of creation. So that the stupid 
rage of this woman crushed, at pleasure, the joy of the future, the glory of 
past generations, the ornament of the present time. In her fits of ill-humor, 
oh shameful abuse ! the horrible old woman struck with her abominable foot, 
these delicate gems of the fine arts ; she treated them as she would have treated 
lovely, chattering children, as if she could have heard, for her delight, their 
groans and sobs. How many did she break ! what numbei-s did she destroy ! 
Did she want a board to hold her breakfast of onions, she made a table of 
some panel of Watteau's ; did she want a piece of copper to mend her sauce- 
pan, she took a little painting of Vandyke's. The rarest cloth served her to 
mend the tapestry which hung on the poisonous walls. The same abuse was 
found in the smallest details. The mug from which the toothless hag drank 
her cold milk, milk weakened by dirty water, was nothing less than a beau- 
tiful porcelain vase of the Sevres manufacture, on which was yet visible, though 
cracked, the noble and beautiful likeness of the queen Marie Antoinette. Oh, 
profanation ! that such a mouth should touch the edge of the limpid vase, 
on which had rested the soft lips of the greatest and most lovely woman in 
the world ! Such was the frightful and startling confusion of this house. A 
dirty apron, stained with the blood of some unhappy pigeon, fallen in this 
dwelling, ignominiously concealed the richest laces, magnificent remnants from 
the small apartments at Versailles ; a golden spoon, graven with the arms of 
a Montmorency or a Crillon, was put into a wooden porringer. When the 
hag returned to her hole, she extended her limbs upon the gilt sofas which 
she had bought at the revolutionary auctions; she placed her half-broken sabots 
upon marble brackets, she looked at her wrinkles in the finest Venetian glasses, 
she covered her hair with a greasy hood, but round this frayed cap she hung, in 
derision, pearls large enough to be envied by the princesses of the blood royal. 
Around her, all was gold and dirt, purple and the coarsest cloth, the finest art 
and the commonest utensils. She put her vinegar in cut glass, and frightened 
away the bold flies that rested upon her forehead, with a fan that Greuze himself 
had signed. Her bed, or rather her pallet, was covered with the richest bro- 
cades ; the straw upon which the monster sought sleep was enclosed in embroid- 
ered velvet ; but sleep did not come, remorse took its place ; during the sad 
nights, the life of the miserable creature unrolled itself before her, her life of 
luxury and fetes, of vices and crimes, of shameless profligacy, for she had even 
put profligacy to the blush. A melancholy dream was hers, and sad was every 
awciking ! Dreams carried her through an endless turmoil, in which mingled 
blows and caresses, good fortune and misery, brown bread and champagne. At 
the same time, to amuse her for a moment, to draw from her a smile (always in 
her dream), she had at her service poets who sang loudly of wine and love ; she 
had at her table hungry philosophers, who attempted to show that Providence 
was an idle name ; she surrounded herself with men whose aim it was to prove 
that the soul was not immortal. It was to amuse such women that Voltaire 
wrote Candide ; that J. J. Rousseau, the simple orator, told the melancholy story 
of Saint Preux and Heloise, without reckoning young Crebillon, who, every 
morning, placed upon madame's toilette his little page of wickedness and vice. 

Thus she lived on the purse of some, the license of others, the impiety of 
all. Miserly among the spendthrifts, skilful and prudent among the dissipated, 
the sole desire of this depraved creature was to enrich herself with the sjioils and 
sophisms of all these men. She swallowed up everything ; she was like the 
north sea, in which nothing reappears after a shipwreck. Thus, in the great 
shipwreck of former times, she alone survived. She saw all her admirers, one 
after the other, depart for the scaffold, or for exile ; they left without a louis in 
their pockets, a coat upon their backs, or a hat upon their heads, and yet it 
never occurred to her to lend them so much as her coachman's cloak. She saw 
crawling to the baker's door, those whose husbands she had ruined by her ex- 
travagance ; and for these poor, weak, emaciated beings, she had not even a 
piece of black bread ! Even in 1792, this woman could think of counting the 
money in her strong box ! Even in 1793, when distracted kings listened to the 



GENERAL ABHORRENCE ^A THUNDERBOIiT. 23 

noise of the falling axe, she counted her gold ! She was accumulating heap 
upon heap ! She went round the scaffolds, to collect the last garments of the 
victims ; she entered the deserted houses, to buy for a mere nothing the spoils 
of the absent masters. She would not trust land, even to buy it cheap, for land 
is faithful, and often returns to its owners ; but she trusted gold, which is a vag- 
abond and a traitor, like herself ! It was her delight to carry off to her closet 
the beautiful ornaments and master-pieces of former days, and to insult them in 
her own fashion ! This was her way of revenging herself upon those good ladies 
who would have washed their hands immediately, if they had happened, in pas- 
sing, to touch the cloak of this despised creature. 

Such had been her life, and this life was repeated, set in remorse, every time 
that she attempted to sleep. But after these frightful slumbers, she again be- 
came the pitiless harpy, whose very name, for three leagues round, made people 
tremble with fear. The poor who passed, turned from the house, lest a tile 
should fall to strike the beggar ; the child who sang in the street became silent 
at the sight of that livid wall ; the most joyous bird hushed his warbling, when 
he flew above the court of the house. In the garden, the lilac had no flowers, 
the bush sprouted reluctantly, the turf withered under her footsteps, the indig- 
nant fruit escaped from her soiled hand, at the approach of the monster the tree 
was tempted to fly ! Her dog would not eat what her hand presented to him ; 
he would rather have died of hunger, than to have gnawed the bone which she 
had picked with her iron-like gums. The poisonous caves, the avenues of which 
Virgil speaks, the pestilential seas, are nothing compared to this green sink, 
where even the toad refused to show himself. The very thieves, when this heap 
of treasures was named, shrugged their shoulders with an oath ; they preferred 
stealing a crown from an honest man, to attempting all this woman's money. 
She was as effectually protected by her baseness, as if she had been surrounded 
by the cannon of the Invalids. The miserable knew this universal horror, and 
after having rejoiced at it, finished by discovering that men were right in over- 
whelming her with hatred. She hated all the world, but she could despise no 
one ; it was in vain to attempt it, although this would have been some con- 
solation. 

What a life and what a death ! what a dreadful old age ! She, to whom vice 
was as necessary as money, had been suddenly arrested in her career by a revo- 
lution, and this revolution had startled from their sleep all honest minds — sol- 
diers, magistrates, princes of the blood ; it had despised only women like herself, 
and had left them in the depth of their degradation. Suddenly was arrested the 
life of foolish joys, intoxication, and delirium, which had so long prevailed; sud- 
denly the storm had lowered, which restored these young and old men to duties 
too long forgotten. Madmen ! during these days and nights of dissipation, they 
had left royalty defenceless ; they had abandoned to insult the altar of God, just 
as they had overturned the king's throne ; they had allowed ancient preposses- 
sions to be sacrificed to that ardent wish for novelty, which is only satisfied with 
murder and suicide ; they had abused everything. But now a thunderbolt had 
restored them to themselves. By the light of this ominous fire, they had found 
a little of their good sense ; they were alarmed at so many disorders ; they had 
come to themselves, in this fatal night of their wandering intellects ; they had 
cried out, Help, help! Then, panting for breath, without finishing the half- 
emptied cup, with scarcely time to place upon the table the ivy crown of the 
drinker, or the rosy crown of the lover, they rallied at once round the throne of 
France, to fight and to die ; and there they fought, and there they fell. And 
when the good king of France, Louis XVI., had left this world, not one of the 
men who had led such a life, could recall without shame and remorse, that for- 
getfulness which had caused the ruin of everything. But with such feelings this 
woman had no sympathy. 

The utter neglect which she now experienced, produced no good effect upon 
her mind ; she was still as despicable as ever, in the midst of her ill-gotten for- 
tune, among the treasures she had heaped up, with so much of rage and despair. 
Sometimes she felt jealous of those unhappy beings who, feeling their sin and 
misery, began to think of repenting and turning to God ; but these were transient 



24 THE COUNT d'ARTOIS — EUPHROSIKE THEVENIN. 

rays in the hideous darkness ; in all the bitter language of remorse, there was 
one word which this woman never could, and never would, pronounce — the word 
repentance ! 

Dead to the world, dead to all human joys and affections, overwhelmed by 
public contempt, which weighed upon her heart as heavily as the earth of her 
tomb now weighs upon her body, she nevertheless had strange and sudden fits 
of anger. It is said, for instance, that when Charles X. hunted in the forest of 
Fontainebleau, she was in the habit of seating herself in some crossway of the 
forest, in the middle of the road, and there she waited till the king passed. Then 
she would stand up, shaking her rags ; she would gaze intently at the howling 
pack, who uttered plaintive groans on their road ; then, when it was the king's 
turn to pass this woman, he would hesitate, become pale as death, and shiver 
from head to foot. Alas! she recalled to the king of France, now old and 
threatened on every hand, the folly and madness of the young Count d'Artois. 

But at last this woman is dead ; she died alone, in her remorse, without one 
charitable hand to close her eyes, without the voice of a priest to impart to her 
any instruction. Her agony was silent and terrible, the agony of a venomous 
being who has no longer anything to bite. During the ninety-two years that she 
had been upon the earth, this woman had found no one person and no one thing 
to love or to help ; not a child, or an old man, not a poor nor a wretched wo- 
man, not an innocence, or a virtue. And so, in dying, she left nothing to any 
one but her strong and powerless curse. All those treasures of art which would 
have formed the pride of the qoblest mansions, she had broken ; all the master- 
pieces of the greatest painters and sculptors she had annihilated ; her gold she 
had melted ; her notes of the bank of France she had burnt. What would she 
not have given, to have been able to take with her her land and her house ? Or, 
at least, if she could have cut down the trees in her garden, destroyed the hope 
of the next autumn, crushed in their nests the eggs of the singing-birds, poisoned 
the fish in her ponds ! If she could have set fire to her crops, and herself disap- 
peared in the flames ! But she had hoped to live long, and now she had not 
breath to light the spark which would have devoured all. 

It was necessary to break open the door to find the corpse, which was 
stretched upon the ground, where it had lain some days ; a volume was by her 
side ; it was the poem in which Voltaire covers with slander the sainted Joan of 
Arc, the purest and most heroic glory of the history of France. The last rattle 
of the depraved woman was a blasphemy. 

She was thrown into a hole, away from consecrated ground, and upon the dis- 
honored pit was found, written in a bold hand, this funeral oration : " Here lies the 
courtesan ivho has dishonored even her own trade.'''' Oh that this woman may be 
the last of such a character ! 

She was called Euphrosine Thevenin — Euphrosine, the name of one of the 
Graces, and if you ask me why this recent history occurs to me, apropos of the 
royal almanac, it is because this strange being was in the habit of requiring from 
each of her lovei"s that his name should be inscribed in the royal almanac. 

I return to my description of Paris. Doubtless, at the moment of quitting the 
noble city, perhaps never to return to it, it is rather late to remember these notes 
taken at the time ; but it is natural to the human mind to return with the live- 
liest feelings to those recollections which we are about to leave. The few 
months I spent in Paris, amid the excitement of fetes and pleasures, did not 
leave me sufficient calmness to enter at the time into these details, which are 
nevertheless not without interest. The great misfortune, I had almost said the 
great vice of all travellers to Paris is, that they immediately seek those things 
which are most brilliant and striking. That to which they first turn their atten- 
tion, even before the history and the manners of a people, is noise, entertain- 
ments, trifling amusements ! The Opera takes precedence of the cathedral, of 
the Hotel de Ville, of the Hospital, of the Chamber of Deputies, and the Cham- 
ber of Peers. When you have named the Opera, you have named all : that delight- 
ful spot — that rendezvous of Parisian causerie. Even now I hear Eugene Lami, 
the tempter, calling me to the splendid enclosure. " Come," says he, " come, 
the saloon is brilliant with light ; the ladies are beautiful and well dressed ; iu 



THE OPERA — PARISIAN CHURCHES. 25 

one corner of the orchestra, you may see sparkling with fire the black eye of 
Meyerbeer ; in that little box above, that young and beautiful woman is the 
happy wife of the author of La Juive, and of Charles VL What an attentive 
and delighted ear she lends to these sweet melodies inspired by the honeymoon I 
Come, then, with us to the Opera, and leave behind you your ancient Paris ; 
you will find it again to-morrow !" 

And I, who like nothing better than to yield to persuasions of this happy pain- 
ter of every kind of elegance, I accompany him wherever he wishes to take me. 
I find in the same place all the beauties of last winter ; but already health has 
reappeared upon those lovely countenances, the fire has returned to those spark- 
ling eyes ; a few fine days in the month of May have proved sufficient to recruit 
these beautiful ladies after their fatigue. The first songs of the nightingale, 
which Madame de Sevigne calls the herald of spring, have restored calm and 
repose to these minds, distracted by the excitement of the ball and the fete. 
But, before taking their final flight for distant climates— to Italy— to the borders 
of Father Rhine — to old ruins in the young provinces — to the midst of the sweet- 
est landscapes with which they are already so familiar — to the shores of the 
roaring sea — or simply to the neighborhood of some celebrated forest — to Erme- 
nonville, for instance — they wished to lend an attentive ear to the delightful and 
touching melodies of the new opera. 



CHAPTER III. 

PARISIAN CHURCHES. 



After having listened, admired, and applauded, the next day I returned anew 
to the study of that Paris which I have learned so much to love. But, however, 
the greatest difficulty in all this is, not to study the city which is before one's 
eyes, but to give an account of what it was previous to a revolution which has 
changed its laws, its customs, its passions, its manners, its habits ; which has 
changed even the names of the streets and the public places. A few, however, 
of the old ones have remained, through that involuntary homage which the pres- 
ent generation always pays to that which is past. Above all, what is most diffi- 
cult to change, with a nation that respects itself, is the form of its temples, the 
names of the saints that it has venerated, the patrons of the churches in which 
its ancestors have been buried. Even when the bones of their fathers have been 
violently taken from their last asylum, the people remember the holy patron once 
suppUcated within the walls. This is the reason that you still have, in Paris, the 
saints of former days under their popular designations : Saint Pierre aux Bosufs, 
Saint Pierre aux Liens, Saint Jaques le Mineur, Saint Jacques le Majeur, Saint 
Jacques la Boucherie, Saint Jacques VHSpital, Saint Jacques du Haut Pas. The 
very people who have overturned evei^thing, will not forget the old calendar of 
their forefathers ; they hold more strongly to their superstition than their belief. 
A changeable and inconstant people, it is said ; and yet, in the same muddy 
streets, gloomy houses, close passages, unwholesome places where they were 
bom, you will still find them crawling from century to century. There are cer- 
tain streets so dark, that the lamp burns in them at all hours of the day. I have 
seen, in the Rue du Roule, a passage so narrow, that the owner of the house, 
being compelled to keep her bed by an accident which had happened to her leg, 
increased in size so much, that when her leg was cured, it was impossible for 
her to go out ; and thus, by her own embonpoint, the poor woman found herself 
condemned to an endless seclusion. She passed her time at the window, and 
you may guess whether she was a gainer, by the permission to become so dis- 
proportionately large. On the other hand, you enter the neighboring houses by 



26 THE SWISS — ASSOCIATIONS OF PARIS. 

large porte cocheres. The door was formerly kept by a Swiss, ornamented with a 
large shoulder-belt, on which were engraved the arms of his master. On your 
entrance, the Swiss whistled to give notice of your arrival. The Swiss played 
an important part in the intrigues of monsieur and madame ; the less he under- 
stood the language of the country, the more was he valued as a good and faithful 
servant. At any rate, he was better than the abominable porters, who exercise 
their noisome industry at the bottom of each modern house. 

Now while I think of it, and while the city already appears in that distance, 
which is so favorable to observation, it seems to me, that I have not rendered 
justice, to those remembrances which rise in crowds, beneath the feet of trav- 
ellers in this immense city, through which have passed the greatest and the 
worst characters recorded in history, the most horrible crimes, and the rarest 
virtues. You can not take a step, in the streets which but now appeared so 
terrible, without meeting one of those names which make the heart beat with 
joy. At the Obsei-vatory, you are at once reminded of Colbert, that great man, 
whose memory, throughout France, is equally honored with that of Louis XIV. 
Farther on, that house — the refuge of such children as the city will not pro- 
tect; orphans, whom their own mothers have rejected from the bosoms so well 
able to nourish them, that dark and melancholy abode, where even infancy is 
serious — will recall to you the greatest name in France, Saint Vincent de Paul ; 
and still more, those walls once formed the abbey of Port Royal, that cradle of 
the most beautiful French language, that commencement of opposition to the 
authority of one alone ; austere abode of the most austere virtues ! A whole 
history belongs to the walls which approach so closely to Port Royal des 
Champs, to Solomon's Song which was chanted night and day in the valley of 
Chevreuse, by so many hermits of such rare constancy, and admirable genius ! 
In the Rue d'Enfer you will find King Saint Louis, who gave the whole street 
to the Carthusian friars; you will find the unhappy La Valliere, sister Louise 
de la Misericorde, that poor girl so much beloved, and so quickly sacrificed to 
the inconstancy of a young king ! How many tears did she shed in that con- 
vent of the Carmelites, where she undertook the most menial employments ! 
Not far from the Rue d'Enfer, rises the institution of the Abbe de I'Epee, the 
tutor, or more properly speaking, the Vincent de Paul of the deaf and dumb. 
Already has commenced the fame of this excellent philosopher, who has drawn 
speech from silence, and light from chaos, who has made the deaf hear, and the 
dumb speak ; his memory is as much honored as that of the most renowned 
upon earth ; his name is blessed and welcomed by the generations of poor chil- 
dren, whom his genius and charity have saved. I have myself been present at 
the birthday fete of the venerable de I'Epee, and no one can describe all the 
joy, the pride, and the eloquence of these deaf and dumb children, kneeling be- 
fore the bust of their father and their benefactor ! At a little distance, nearly 
opposite the delightful gardens of the Luxembourg — beautiful verdure — blue 
and transparent sky — shrubs, rose-trees, large park — white statues — rises the 
dome of the Val de Grace, separated from the gardens by a long succession of 
frightful houses. The dome recalls to you Anne of Austria, the queen with 
the beautiful hands, the wife of King Louis XIII., the mother of King Louis 
XIV. Francois Mansard was the architect of the Val de Grace, Mignard was 
its decorator. In the depth of these sunless streets. Queen Blanche, the moth- 
er of Louis IX., resided ; Queen Margaret, the wife of the sainted king, there 
founded an abbey, and here her young daughter Blanche died. Great prin- 
cesses, humble virtues, noble remembrances, which preserve these wretched 
houses from contempt ! The Parisians are surprisingly well acquainted with 
the history of their own city. In this church, reposes a whole generation of 
kings ; James II., king of Great Britain, Louise Marie Stuart, his daughter, 
and all the faithful Fitz- Jameses, who have come to lay themselves down at the 
feet of their buried monarchs. Here lies Marshal de Lowendal, a descendant 
of the old heroes of Denmark. The Jardin des Plantes alone, that oasis lost in 
the darkness, that spot of refreshment and repose, placed at the top of that 
beautiful hill, would be sufficient to fill a large volume. The whole world ap- 
pears to be contained within its vast enclosure. Listen, and you will hear the 



SANTEUL — PARIS WHITK AND PARIS BLACK. 27 

singing of every bird in the air, the roaring of every beast in the forest ; the 
lion and humming-bird ; the giraffe and the wild cat ; the whole family of the 
monkeys ; all the plants of the south and the north ; all which lives, all which 
has lived ; the animal and its skin, the feather, and the hair, and the shell ; — the 
color and the form ; the skeleton and embryo ; — all suit this vast assemblage of 
all the beauties, all the curiosities, and all the phenomena of nature. Neither 
are great names wanting, and those of the most celebrated ; Buffon, Daubenton, 
Jussieu, Tournefort, VaiUant, LinnEeus — and Cuvier who presides over them 
all, by the extent of his mind and genius. Let us, then, leave the poets to 
their ill humor ; with a sweeter and serener philosophy, it is always easy to find, 
even near the refuse of the noble city, a consolation or a hope ; by the side of 
an hospital, a garden ; by the side of a ditch, a fountain ; on the edge of a pre- 
cipice, a flower. What is there more delightful ? and yet what more natural 1 
Here we have now the abbey Saint Victor, which recalls to us one of the 
greatest poets of France, the poet Santeul, a wit in Latin. The church still 
sings, on her high days, the beautiful hymns of the poet of Saint Victor. The 
old fountains which throw their scanty shadow, across the richest ornaments of 
the stone or marble of Jean Goujon, bear on their fronts the sweet lines of San- 
teul ; he was, like a Christian Martial, always ready to lend the scanned grace 
of his poetry, to the slightest event in his beloved city. No Parisian has had 
more wit in French, than the poet Santeul displayed in Latin. Read, for in- 
stance, this beautiful distich written upon the fountain near the library of Saint 
Victor : — 

" Quae sacros doctrinse aperit domus intima fontes, 
Civibus exterior dividit urbis aquas." 

" Beneficent house ! Enter, you will here find all the sources of science ; while 
without, she gives to each, the limpid crystal of its waters." 

It seems to me, that this consecration of the beautiful monuments, by Latin 
poetry, was not devoid of charm and grace ; and besides, it was an elegant way 
of recalling to the great French city, its Roman origin ; whether the word Lu- 
iece comes from Luteum, which is found in Ccesar^s Commentaries, or whether 
the word Paris is derived from Paratridos — the origin is certainly ancient and 
heathen. Only, in opposition to the meaning of Lutece, the muddy city, Strabo, 
in his picturesque language, calls it the white city, Leukotokia. It has required 
not less than nineteen centuries, to place the white city in its present beauty, 
opposite the muddy city ; the former having been long governed by the latter, 
until at last Leukotokia has taken precedence of Lutece. Two distinct cities 
in one — Lutece stands cold, melancholy, and serious at the summit of the hill 
of Saint Genevieve ; Lutece, learned and pedantic, and still remembering the 
Emperor Julian and the Emperor Charlemagne : my dear Lutece, as Julian 
called it. There stood his Palais de Thermes, and near it had risen the Sor- 
bonne, two ruins which we must salute with respect. The other city, Leuko- 
tokia, has long since shaken off the dust of former ages. Upon sites covered 
with beautiful trees, and gardens in flower, she has built herself exquisite 
houses ; she has made a gracious and delightful appeal to the light, the sun, 
space, green turf, clear fountains, and the beauties of the Parisian world ! These 
two cities, so different from each other, are at the two extremities of the capi- 
tal; between them flows the Seine, stands the Louvre, and rises, in all its gran- 
deur, the tower of Notre Dame. In the new city, it is in vain for you to search 
— you will not find one vestige of past times, not one remembrance of Csesar or 
of Chilperic, not one relic of Captain Labienus or King Childebert. All is 
new in the white city, the city of yesterday ; the very temples have a festive 
look, the houses are coquettish and elegant, the sculptures belong to the mod- 
ern school, and not to the ruined temples of Ceres or Vesta. There, yon will 
neither hear of Jupiter, nor of Vulcan, nor of Velleda, cutting the mistletoe 
from the oak with her golden pruning-knife ; nor of Mercury, the god of the 
city, nor of Maia, his mother ; or, at least, if these deities are named, from the 
Boulevard de Grand to Notre Dame de Lorette, it is apropos of a ballet at the 
opera, or a lesson in mythology. In Leukotokia, there is nothing serious, 



28 1.EUKOTOKIA — SAINT GENEVIEVE — THE SORBONNE. 

nothing solemn ; all is entertainment and pleasure ; love is the great occupation 
of this isolated city. There, you will find neither a college, nor a convent, nor 
anything resembling the School of Law, the School of Medicine, or the Sor- 
bonne. Not a remnant of the Circus, or the Amphitheatres, or the Forum ; not 
a trace of the old Capetian palaces ; not one saint of the long list who walks at 
night, carrying his head under his arm, as did Saint Denis the martyr, on the 
top of Montmartre. No, no; the new city would be afraid of these gothic pal- 
aces ; scarcely does she thing of the future, much less of the past — for her, the 
principal business, the important action, the all-powerful interest, is the present 
moment ; it is the hour which sounds on these pendulums, the signal of pleas- 
ure and of love ; this is the supreme law. In this beautiful part of the city, 
you will find neither judge, nor notary, nor attorney : savings' banks are here 
considered fables. The only institution of ancient Paris which would have 
been welcome in Leukotokia, was the Pre aux Clercs, a delightful spot, where 
the youth of past ages — for the past was once youthful — vied with each other 
in coming to drink, fight, and talk nonsense. Carelessness is carried to such 
an extent in these privileged places, that no one thinks of death ; there is not a 
single doctor, not a single nurse. The one healer of all ills in this city of syba- 
rites, is the fashionable milliner ; an eminent dressmaker, a skilful hairdresser, 
a beautful Cashmere shawl, a handsome ornament, or at least a good supper — 
these are the grand remedies, the universal panacea. Who talks of dying ? 
They do not even know what old age is, here. In this little corner, under the 
ever-blue sky, all the ladies are twenty years old, sometimes less than twenty 
years, but never, under any pretence, one day more ! 

The only one of the beliefs of ancient Paris that has passed into the city ; 
^oh ! who would guess it ? — is the belief in Saint Genevieve, the patroness of 
the city, the virtuous and courageous patroness, who announced long before- 
hand, another heroine equally dear to France, Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orleans. 
Thanks to the remembrance of Saint Genevieve, thanks to this popular name, 
the city of grace and gallantry has not been left without a saint to invoke, on 
those days which to her are heavy with clouds and remorse. Modern Paris 
even prefers Saint Genevieve keeping her flocks, to the repenting Magdalen, 
whose temple forms a boundary to the new city, so long predicted by Saint Au- 
gustin. But let us return a little to ancient Paris ; do not let us neglect that, 
for the one so fond of display ; let us seek respectfully the traces left in the old 
streets, by the kings of the third race. On the site of Hvigh Capet's palace, — 
that terrible count of Paris, who gave his son for a tutor flichard Duke of Nor- 
mandy, — has been built a dancing-room ; this room is called the Prado, and here 
come almost daily, students and grisettes to dance ; the student thinking no more 
than the grisette, of the most important articles of that civil code which he pro- 
fesses to be studying. 

In the church of Notre Dame, — that immense work, which is a whole poem, 
— entire generations have been bixried. How many eminent men were interred 
there, between the reign of Childebert and that of Louis XIV. ! 

Alas ! when once you have abandoned history to that time which devours all 
things, you will find, that of all histories, that of tombs is the most fruitful. The 
dust which once disturbs, throws around it solemn lessons ; the great names of 
former days hold an imposing place, even in the disordered scrap-books of the 
passing traveller. How is it that I — scarcely escaped from Parisian fetes, I 
who have pursued so warmly these incredible elegances, I, the hero of the ope- 
ra, balls, and concerts, — now find myself occupied in reading upon these half- 
broken stones, names carried away by death ? Where are ye, O ye heads of sci- 
ence, and ye masters of the people ? Guillaume de Champeaux, Abeilard, and 
you also, Heloise ? But we have wandered far away from our point. 

Not so far, however, but that we have arrived opposite that curious monument 
called the Sorbonne ; that monument now filled with profane eloquence, — im- 
patient minds in the pulpit, rebellious minds around the pulpit, youth whom 
even M. Saint Marc Girardin that man of extraordinary talent, of ingenious in- 
tellect, of eloquent composure, — has so much difficulty in restraining. In this 
school, which has no longer any barriers, you will vainly seek some vestige of 



THE SORBONNE THE BASTILLE THE RESTORATION. 29 

the revered Sorbonne ; scarcely will you find the scattered and half-effaced re- 
membrances of that venerable institution, the theology of which, in former times, 
was all its science. In bygone days, whoever named the Sorbonne, named 
the three theological virtues, minus charity and hope. The Sorbonne was, so to 
speak, a parliament without appeal, where all questions relative to the iloman 
catholic belief, were gravely and severely discussed. And, as, at that time, faith 
was everywhere, in the smallest pamphlet of the writer, in the slightest word of 
the orator, in the confidential letter, — it follows, from this ubiquity of faith, that 
the Sorbonne also was everywhere, that it entered every conscience, and had the 
right to inquire into books and ideas, which are now most foreign to it. 

It was, in truth, a kind of religious inquisition, which, in case of need, had 
its dungeons and its funeral piles ; more than once it employed even the execu- 
tioner, against persons and books. But compared with other inquisitions, that 
of the Sorbonne was benevolent, even enlightened. It summoned around it, the 
noblest minds, the greatest names, and the boldest and most courageous men ; 
it was afraid of nothing but innovators. With the Sorbonne, novelty was in all 
things the worst of schisms. Thus even to the end, this grave and learned in- 
stitution, — which had heard the Prince de Conde and Bousset support within its 
enclosure, their theological dogmas, — remembered the instructions of its illus- 
trious protector. Cardinal Richelieu. It defended itself as bravely as possible, 
from all the rebels against authority, which the end of the seventeenth, and the 
whole of the eighteenth century, produced. It defended, step by step, the moral 
dominion which the Romish church had confided to it ; and when at last it was 
compelled to give way, it did so honorably, after having stood alone against all, 
alone against Voltaire, alone against the whole Encyclopsedia. What do we say ? 
It had stood alone against M. Arnauld and against Pascal ! 

Undoubtedly, when the hour of desolation comes, it is well to fall as nobly as 
did the Sorbonne. The Sorbonne fell like the royalty of France, like the no- 
bility, like all that belonged to past times, with courage and resignation. The 
revolution entered its gaping wall, nearly in the same way as the First Consul 
Bonaparte entered the orangery at Saint Cloud ; all the old doctors of the old 
Romish faith were driven from it, as the straw is driven away by the wind. 

There is yet one thing to be said of the fallen Sorbonne, and that is, that long 
before 1793, it was a power conquered for ever. When once it had been defeat- 
ed, in its duel with the Emile of Jean Jacques Rousseau, with the Dictionnaire 
Philosophique of Voltaire, with the (Euvres of Montesquieu, with the whole 
Encyclopffidian school, the Sorbonne was as effectually conquered as was the 
Bastille, for instance, a month before July 14, 1789. 

When the Bastille was taken, there was only a nominal governor; when the 
Sorbonne was attacked, its walls enclosed nothing but a few old Latin theses 
upon the bull Unigenitus, or perhaps for and against Aristotle ; thus it may be 
said, that the old Sorbonne, when it died, had fulfilled its mission ; the hberty 
of minds and the slavery of consciences had no longer anything to hope or to 
expect from it. The Sorbonne had uttered its last fiat in the world of ideas, 
just as the Bastille had issued its last lettre de cachet ; and therefore, when the 
Restoration wished to refound the Sorbonne, it foolishly attempted a thing as 
impossible, as if it had desired to rebuild the Bastille, and again put in force 
the lettres de cachet. 

But the Restoration failed in foresight ; it was as obstinate as it was benevo- 
lent ; it wished for the past ; the whole past, alas ! and nothing but the past. 
The emigrants and the priests, — people, for the most part, quite indifferent to 
the religious doctrines of which they were incessantly talking ; had so long said 
that the throne was the altar, — that the obedience of the people was founded upon 
faith, — that the sum of Saint Thomas ought to take precedence of the Charter, 
— that Saint Gregory was a greater orator than Benjamin Constant, and that 
General Foy himself was nothing compared to Saint Jean Chrysostome ; the 
old Bourbons had been so often told and retold, that they could only extricate 
themselves from their difficulties, by the help of the old casuists, and that the 
Chamber of Deputies, would one day vanish in smoke, before the holy councils, 
that the imprudent kings began to dream, among other restorations, of restoring 



30 LECTURES RE-ESTABLISHED — REVOLUTIONARIES. 

the Sorbonne. By their order, the edifice was repaired, the pulpits, in which 
dogmas were to be taught, were re-estabhshed ; they blew upon the extinguished 
cinders, they awoke the old echoes, they raised all that learned powder which 
had formerly darkened the sun. The tomb was renewed, a bad, vulgar Latin, a 
melancholy, proscribed cant, was recalled to those walls, which had once re- 
sounded with so elegant a Latinity. So that, on account of this revived Sor- 
bonne, the theologians, princes of the blood, noblemen, and ministers, the 
whole right side of the chamber, sang the most short-sighted of Te Deuvis. 

They thought the monarchy was saved, since the Sorbonne was restored to 
it. They clapped their hands at the new faith which would so soon flourish 
again. Vain eiforts ! useless hopes ! cruel deceptions ! For, no sooner was 
the Sorbonne reopened, no sooner had it been announced that the Abbe Such- 
a-one would speak upon grace. Veneris die ( Venus^s day); the Abbe Such-a-one 
upon confession, Martis die {Mars's day) ; the Abbe Such-a-one on cases of con- 
science, die Mercurii {Mercury^s day) ; than immediately, by the mighty power 
of this invincible revolution, against which the restoration was gathering — the 
new philosophy, the German eclecticism, the Voltairian skepticism, all the ideas 
of this revolutionary age, against which they endeavored to raise this theologi- 
cal school, themselves intruded upon the restored Sorbonne. Philosophy took 
possession of the pulpits where the theologian was expected ; history filled with 
its lessons, the oak-seats placed for doctrine. The abbes appointed for the in- 
struction of youth, had nothing better to do than to be silent and fly, seeing 
themselves without audience and without echo, so that Saint Sulpice thought 
itself but too happy to take back, safe and sound, the theological professors and 
the theological auditors, whom they had lent for this solemn juncture, as a man 
lends his cloak to a friend Avho has pawned his own. But it was well worth while 
truly, to re-establish the Sorbonne for the comfortable accommodation of the 
three men who had the greatest power over the young minds by whose aid the 
revolution of July was about to be planned and accomplished. 

Even to those who are most foreign to everything belonging to modern 
France, it is unnecessary to repeat the names of the three eloquent and impas- 
sioned professors, who have held in their hands the destinies of the new Sor- 
bonne : — their words have produced upon the young spirits of the restoration, 
the same effect as lighted torches thrown among sheaves of wheat. They have 
defeated, day by day, those slow moral repairs which the restoration attempted 
so painfully by the aid of a conquered sect, and an exhausted nobility. They 
have no love for each other, and have therefore never come to a mutual under- 
standing, and yet, by their joint, though not united efforts, they have baflied all 
the attempts of the royalist and religious party. These three professors, the 
honor of piiblic instruction, you have already named — M. Guizot, M. Ville- 
main, and M. Cousin. 

I know what answer will be given me, and that at first sight you will be much 
astonished to hear me call them revolutionaries ; you will tell me I flatter them ; 
but notice, I beg of you, that it is even on account of their apparent modera- 
tion, and by the mighty power of their real prudence, that the instructions of 
these three masters have been, and in fact must be, so formidable. If they had 
possessed more courage or less prudence, if they had concealed less skilfully, 
the dominion which they had acquired over the mind, the government of the 
restoration would have been upon its guard, and would have defended itself 
with all its poAver ; it would have closed these traitorous schools, and thus have 
obtained some respite in an open war. This war, however, was anything but 
open ; on the contrary, the three champions brought to this daily combat, each 
according to his own peculiarities, the most judicious limitations ; they envelop- 
ed themselves in all kinds of marvellous circumlocutions, never avowing their 
hopes, even those most distant. They wished to see a revolution accomplished; 
but they dreaded, as much for their fellow-citizens as for themselves, the dis- 
orders, the misfortunes, and the ambitions, that all new revolutions bring with 
them. Even in their anger, they were cool ; even in their revolts, they chose to 
have right on their side. But in the general struggle of parties, in the general 
stir of opinions, in the tumultuous and turbid mixture of political feelings, 



THE ORATORS OF THE SORBONNE — POWER OF ELOqUENCE. 31 

these are just the men to fear ; it is these who are strong because they are pru- 
dent, who are dangerous because they are wary, who attain their point because 
they walk with a slow, sure step ; defeats renders them popular, victory makes 
them powerful ; if conquered, they are laden with praises ; if conquerors, they 
know at once where victory ought to stop. 

In point of revolutions and revolutionaries, the dangerous man is not he who 
talks and agitates, it is not he who openly lavishes his slander and his insult, it 
is not he who uses the poison and the dagger ; it is not the demoniac in the 
newspaper, or the fanatic in the tribune ; these are well-known ; people know 
how to defend themselves from them ; to oppose them there are the king's at- 
torneys, the gendarmes ; they may be imprisoned, or bribed ; at the worst, they 
can be let alone. But the others, the revolutionaries who respect the law, the 
eloquent men whose speech is as ingenious, as it is high-sounding and impas- 
sioned, the faithful subjects, who, under pretence of shaking the throne, in 
order to rouse the king from his lethargy, plunge into the same abyss both throne 
and monarch ; all these revolutionaries, whom no one suspects, and who do not 
themselves know the full power of their minds, these are the formidable ones, 
depend upon it. 

And yet to such men, the restored Sorbonne was about to yield itself. 

It must be owned that a long period will elapse before three orators of such 
strength will again be assembled within the same enclosure. They had, be- 
tween them, the materials for composing an orator, more powerful and more 
terrible than even Mirabeau, when he was surrounded by the first tokens of the 
greatest revolution which has ever astonished the world. The first leaned upon 
history, attaching himself simply to facts, from which he drew all the clear, 
positive consequences which he needed for his system; the second, on the con- 
trary, was by turns, and according to the necessity of the case, an excited fanat- 
ic or an obscure German, wrapping himself in exhalations from beyond the 
Rhine, a luminous column, exhibiting only its shady side. He usually spoke 
loud, and as if fully convinced of his position ; a harlequin philosopher, whose 
coat was composed of all kinds of brilliant rags, torn from Plato, Aristotle, 
Kant, Herder, and even Condillac, for he boiTowed from everybody : the 
third and last, the most admirable and inspired of rhetoricians, with the 
greatest powers of extemporaneous speaking, giving dazzling but fugitive pe- 
riods, to which the delighted ear readily yields itself, with lively wit, and irre- 
sistible grace, so that he might have become, if he would, the most eloquent 
and the most interesting of orators. 

Such were these three orators ; and, although divided upon all points, and 
although the learned and grave historian thought but little of the eloquent 
jugglery of the philosopher, while the professor, pre-occupied with form, 
scarcely knew, when absent, what was said by his two rivals, the historian and 
the philosopher ; yet such was the mighty power of the ideas which they ad- 
vanced, that, without ever having held any communication, they understood 
each other wonderfully. They were like three workmen, laboring, each at his 
own post, to overthrow a rampart, and who, without having met, strive which 
shall give the most furious blows of the axe, until the wall being pulled down, 
the three recognise each other, astonished, and almost frightened at the devas- 
tation they have made. Or, if my first comparison alarms you, these three 
professors, each speaking to the youths who understood them with half a word, 
represent to you the three terrible orchestras of Bon Juan during the violin 
scene. Each orchestra sings, in its own way, its complaint or its anger, without 
disturbing itself as to the neighboring orchestra, until they all three burst 
into the same malediction. Alas ! who would have thought it ? this anathema- 
tized Don Juan was his very Christian and very benevolent majesty. King 
Charles X.! 

To be able to form a just idea, of the power of these men over the fine youths 
of the restoration, who lent to them siich attentive ears — you must have heard 
them ; for their lessons written out in haste, like the analyses which have been 
made of them, bear no resemblance to their speech — so animated, so warm, and 
which exhibited so strongly all the marks of sincerity and conviction. M. Gui- 



32 M. GUIZOT MADAME GUIZOT. 

zot, for instance, reached the pulpit with a firm and somewhat solemn step. At 
his appearance, the restless and agitated crowd became silent; he began to speak 
immediately and without hesitating, his voice was clear and short, he was author- 
itative and cutting in his discourse, his sentences were abrupt, but little flowery, and 
often wanting in elegance, but what was lost in elegance, was gained in power and 
energy. The person of the orator answered exactly to his discourse. It was the 
proud, dull look, which only sparkled at rare intei-vals, like fire concealed be- 
neath the ashes. It was the sombre hue which nothing alters, neither joy, nor 
melancholy, nor the pride of delight, nor the vexation of defeat. It was the 
broad, intelligent forehead, upon which were exhibited none of the passions of 
the inner man. In this ancient Sorbonne, which had defended with armed hand 
the holy purity of the Romish doctrines ; in this religious echo, which still re- 
membered confusedly, but not without emotion and respect, so many eminent 
doctors of the Sorbonne, defenders, executioners, and martyrs of the Romish 
faith; M. Guizot, the protestant, was animated with an indescribable feeling of 
triumph, which, in such a spot, formed a large part of his eloquence. It was a 
source of great delight to him, that he should be permitted to speak aloud be- 
tween the two statues of Fenelon and Bossuet, opposite the likenesses of Mas- 
sillon and Pascal ; that he, the convinced child of Luther, should give such a 
contradiction to the Histoire dcs Variations ! And, as in this vast city of Paris, 
every one is acquainted with all that regards these heroes of the mind — people 
knew that M. Guizot was poor, that he had fallen under the displeasure of the 
monarchy, to which, while yet young, he had given the most loyal proofs of his 
devotedness and his zeal. It was said that he had an old mother, a matron of 
primitive times, of great tenderness, and inflexible duty, whose life was modelled 
from the Bible, and that before this old mother he knelt every evening, saying 
to her, "Bless me!" It was known that he, with his wife, who was a clever 
woman, passed night and day, in earning a livelihood by literary labors, accept- 
ing all that was oflered — articles to write in the newspapers, the Metnoires de 
VHistoire d'' Angleterre to aiTange, the bad translation of Shakspere by Latour- 
neur, to be revised, corrected, and explained. Madame Guizot rectified with ad- 
mirable patience, the misconstructions and grammatical faults of Latoumeur, 
while her husband wrote at the head of all Shakspere's tragedies, short prefaces, 
which are masterpieces of penetration and good sense. A melancholy occupa- 
tion, say you, for such a man, for such a politician, who was one day to hold in 
his hands the destinies of France and of a revolution ! A melancholy occupa- 
tion, to be on hire to M. Ladvocat, the bookseller ! But what could be done ? 
The greatest comic poet of ancient Rome was glad to turn a millstone in order 
to live ! Thus all admired M. Guizot for his modest and laborious life ; his pa- 
tience was talven for resignation ; he was valued for what he dared to say in his 
course, and above all, for what he did not say. In a word, he was loved like a 
man who shows you only half his thoughts ; for since torture has been abolish- 
ed, all agree that this is the greatest punishment which can be imposed on him 
who writes or speaks. Indeed, even to the religious conviction of M. Guizot, 
even to that belief which was not the Romish belief, there was nothing in him 
which the youth of the Sorbonne did not admire. Ah ! you wish these young 
people to be catholics. Ah! you would bring back the Jesuits to Saint Acheul, 
and you would re-establish the Sorbonne. Ah ! you would forcibly expel by 
every means, even by the eloquence of M. Lamennais, Voltarian skepticism ! 
Wei] ! you shall see what a contradiction we can give you. We will attack you 
on your most sensitive point ; we will applaud, not doubt, but schism ; not only 
will we deny as strongly as possible the religious belief of the house of Bour- 
bon, but we will honor, in every conceivable way, the protestantism of M. Gui- 
zot. And really these young men, in their rage for opposition, were clever to 
reason thus, for there was one man, whom the French clergy hated still more 
than Voltaire, and that man was Luther. But who would have said at that time, 
and when the restoration — aroused at last, but too late — closed the course of M. 
Guizot, that this protestant, applauded in open Sorbonne, because he was a prot- 
estant, would one day become minister of pubhc instruction, of the French 
kingdom, just like the Bishop of Hermopolis ? 



M. VILLEMAIN — HIS POPULARITY — HIS ORATORY. 33 

Let US turn to the other orator, to the other minister of public instruction, 
M. Villemain. The latter exhibited in a far greater degree than his colleague, 
all the freedom of a man whose principal concern was to breathe classic air, and 
who troubled himself but little about the future, so sure was he, that Latin and 
Greek, and beautiful Ciceronian periods, would not fail him for the rest of his 
life. M. Villemain was, if you please, a man in the opposition, but by no 
means violent in his feelings; on the contrary, he was one of those cautious op- 
posers, who can to-morrow, without meanness, advocate ministerial measures. 
Far from being isolated, like M. Guizot, and given up to barren labors, M. Vil- 
lemain had around him to love, protect, and defend him, some of the powerful 
journals, a pai-t of the Council of Public Instruction, the M'hole Academy, all 
the graces of his speech, all the fascinations of his mind. The public had long 
been accustomed to love him, for, from his first successes at the university to his 
first success at the French Academy, from his beautiful translation of Cicero's 
Republic, happily refound, to his formal opposition to M. de Villele, M. Ville- 
main had been without intermission the hero, what do I say ? the spoiled child of 
popular favor. And yet more, what had been done for General Foy, had just 
been done for him, a national subscription had been made, to recompense him for 
a dismission, warmly given, at the very moment when the greatest minds in France 
separated from the old monarchy. Thus supported by all which constitutes 
power, M. Villemain can not in any way be compared, for credit and position, 
with M. Guizot ; for in proportion as the latter stood alone, poor and without sup- 
port, just so the former was surrounded by encouragement and powerful friend- 
ships. The one, out of his pulpit, had much difficulty in ranking among 
those rare ideologists who have since become the doctrinaires, and of whom he 
is now the sovereign master; the other, on the contrary, was the mind, the 
speech, the counsel, sometimes even the energetic and lively style, of this oppo- 
sition, which was already mistress within and without, and which finished by be- 
coming the revolution of July, ten years later. 

Imagine that on some Monday, on one of those gray, dull frosts in the De- 
cember of a Parisian winter, the neighborhood of the Sorbonne is filled with an 
unusual crowd ; people run from all parts of the city, in all kinds of costume, 
some on foot, some in carriages, for among the impatient and shivering multi- 
tude, the prince of the blood must wait till the doors are open, as well as the student 
of one year's standing. At eleven o'clock, the immense court of the Sorbonne is 
filled ; at twelve, the doors are opened. In a moment, the vast hall is entirely 
occupied; they push and jostle each other; the least space on the oak-seats is 
eagerly disputed ; the crowd choose that the doors should remain open, and 
those who arrive late are kept at the foot of the staircase, only too happy to seize 
on their passage, some of those powerful vibrations which announce the pres- 
ence of the master. At the appointed hour, and by a certain entrance, which is, 
like all the rest, obstructed by numbers, a man creeps with great difficulty, and 
makes his way to the pulpit amid a thunder of applause ; he takes his seat in 
anything but an elegant posture, generally he crosses his right leg over his left ; 
he leans his head upon his shoulder, like many of the great men of antiquity. 
But let us wait, he will soon raise his head, his animated look will run over the 
attentive crowd, his speech will become as animated as his look, and suddenly, 
the first hesitation passed, you must prepare to follow the orator, in the most 
impetuous caprices of his thought. Ah! what a wonderful literaiy labyrinth, 
what a bold mixture of the soundest sense and the wildest flights of imagina- 
tion ! an admirable collection of philosophy, history, and literature, in which the 
most different geniuses, the most opposite talents, are found blended and con- 
fused with incredible skill; Bossuet, by the side of Saurin, Shakspere by the 
side of Moliere, the Telemaque of Fenelon by the side of the Utopia of Sir 
Thomas More. And through the thousand flowery labyrinths of his thought) 
it was curious to see how this man contrived to make use of present literature ; 
to summon to the aid of the ancients, whose mighty power and energy he pro- 
claimed, the contemporary works which he subjected without remorse to his 
ironical analysis. You should have seen with what enthusiasm, and at the same 
time with what good sense, he spoke of the old mastei-pieces, which he made 

3 



34 ELOQUENCE OF M. VILLEMAIN — M. COUSIN. 

one love ; of the great writers, whom he surrounded with respect, and how he 
made the youthful assembly support everything, even the praises of Louis XIV. 
Thus you would follow him, in the literary history of the three great centuries 
to which Francis I. gave the signal. The auditors of this animated professor 
would, in imitation of him, pass from Montaigne and Rabelais to Madame de 
Sevigne and La Fontaine, from Saint Evremont and Fontenelle to Montesquieu 
and Massillon, until he has suddenly stopped before J. J. Rousseau and Vol- 
taire, to whose cause he has not been false, even in open Sorbonne, any more 
than in open Sorbonne M. Guizot has been false to the cause of Melancthon 
and Luther! 

I may perhaps be mistaken, but 1 do not think human speech ever caused to a 
younger audience more powerful and more sudden emotions. Once having 
flung himself into this literary arena, which he had made so vast, M. Villemain 
hesitated no more ; he became intoxicated with his own words, as a man becomes 
intoxicated for a moment with champagne ; and once in the reelings of poetical 
drunkenness, he had all its hallucinations, all its giddiness, but also all its convic- 
tion and power. How beautiful it was to hear him defending, in spite of him- 
self, the past, which he loved for its style and its genius, and suddenly arresting 
himself in the midst of his praises ; for, from his sincere admiration for the liter- 
ature of former days, he would not that you should draw the political conclusion 
that the past might yet return. Because he frankly acknowledged the moral 
authority of Cardinal Richelieu, he would not that you should draw from this 
the inference that he would accept M. de Villele ; and when he knelt before the 
eloquence of Bossuet, he quickly rose again, remembering that in the midst of 
liberal France, missionaries were walking, whose unpleasant and ignorant doc- 
trines were troubling every conscience, and burning upon the funeral pyre the 
whole of Voltaire's works. Thus divided between his loyal admiration for the 
past in France, and his sincere opposition to the restoration of so many things, 
the restoration of which was impossible, M. Villemain, to those who knew how 
to listen to him, was doxibly interesting ; yoii were curious to watch how he 
obeyed these two contrary feelings, how he could be faithful at the same time to 
his admiration and his dislike ; how the respectful, devoted subject of Louis 
XIV., could maintain his opposition to Charles X. Assuredly, it was no easy 
task ; but with his usual skill, or what is yet more skilful, with the good fortune 
of his whole life, M. Villemain would accomplish his double piu-pose, without 
being false either to his admiration for the past, or his dislike of the present. 
He remained that which he chose to be, in literature, as in politics and religion, 
a critic of Boileau's school, who admired Shakspere and M. Schlegel ; a pas- 
sionate enthusiast for Bossuet, who acknowledged Diderot and Voltaire ; a cham- 
berlain of Louis XIV., who would have been proud to make the king's bed with 
Moliere, and who was nevertheless able, in all loyalty, to clap his hands at the 
final departure from France of the very Christian grandson of his very Christian 
majesty the great king. 

As for the third orator, I can say much less of him than of the other two, for 
I have only heard him speak two or three times. There are some rebellious 
minds which can not enter into the finest things, and who would give the whole 
of Plato for one ode from Horace. What is called philosophy, strictly speak- 
ing, seems to them a kind of dream, without poetry and without reality — that is 
to say, the most melancholy of all dreams. I own, for my part, that I am of the 
number of those blind, rebellious persons, who shut their eyes lest they should 
see the truth ! M. Cousin has always been to me a sort of enigma without an- 
swer, and I would give all the labors of his life for one hour of M. Villemain's 
speech, or M. Guizot's teaching. And yet it must be confessed that M. Cousin 
was as popular when he spoke in the Sorbonne as his two fellow-laborers. He 
possessed that wonderful copiousness, which never recoils before any obstacle ; 
and provided he spoke, it signified little to him what he was about to say. Phi- 
losophy has its effrontery as well as eloquence, and in this the boldness is so 
much the easier, that neither your audience nor yourself attends precisely to 
the particulars of your discourse ; they must accept the medley, whatever it 
may be, whether it comes from ancient Greece or modern Germany. And the 



A STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT — SOPHISTRY. 35 

more so, because, a man of the world, M. Cousin had used and abused this 
philosophical redundancy in which he excelled. He spoke with surprising fa- 
cility ; he had the gesture, the voice, the animation, the furious accent of a very 
demon ; you would have said that he fought, like Hamlet, with some invisible 
phantom ; and it was amusing to see his violent stabs in the air. I remember 
one day happening to enter his class, in which so many strange ideas were 
brought forward. At the moment of my entrance, the professor struck the pul- 
pit with his two fists, and foaming at the mouth, with his hair standing on end, 
and his eyes flashing fire, he cried, " No ! no ! we were not defeated at Water- 
loo!'''' At this extraordinary announcement, judge whether his young audience 
did not clap their hands with delight, and partaking of the enthusiasm of the 
philosopher, repeat vehemently to themselves, " No I no ! we were not defeated 
at Waterloo." The great secret of M. Cousin consisted in this : he found it 
much easier and much more convenient to address himself to the passions of his 
hearers, than to their intelligence and good sense. By a stratagem which is very 
old, and which will yet always be new — when the enthusiasm of his class lan- 
guished, like a true statesman he called to his aid, and made to vibrate, those 
great, immortal, and inexhaustible names of liberty, country, national indepen- 
dence. When his pupils were tired of the Sorbonne, he led them to the bor- 
ders of the Rhine, and thence showed them the royal limits which France has 
lost, not forgetting to tell them at each lesson that there he had been a captive, 
which placed him on a false equality with General Lafayette, who had 
been a prisoner at Olmutz. In this way, the success of M. Cousin, equal to 
that of his two brothers, M. Guizot and M. Villemain, was, if not less loyal, at 
least more easy to merit, to obtain, to preserve. In the present day, M. Cousin 
has opened that fatal road of political flatteries in which more than one honest 
man in the Sorbonne has gone astray. Strange ! here is a writer who speaks, 
a historian who teaches, a philosopher who disputes ; the writer is self-possessed, 
and entirely under his own control ; the historian governs his audience without 
granting them anything : of the three men, one only is carried away ; it is the 
philosopher, and this very impetuosity forms his whole power. If you ask me 
by what course of reasoning M. Cousin proved that the French were not de- 
feated at Waterloo, I can not very well tell you. I understood that it was in 
some such way as this : When two armies fight in a plain, it is not men who 
come to blows, but ideas. But in the battle of Waterloo, the French idea re- 
mained erect, suiTounded by the dying and the dead; er^o, the French were 
not defeated at Waterloo. 

A little stratagem, you will say, and a pardonable one, if eloquent. But then 
it was so easy to answer that at Waterloo it was the imperial idea which was at 
stake, and that therefore the French were defeated at Waterloo ! After which, 
M. Cousin might have been told that he put a chorus to his philosophy, as 
Beranger did to his songs, for that this pretended victory had been shown, be- 
fore he even thought of it, by Gonthier at the Gymnase, and by Vernet at the 
Varietes, in the SoLdat lahoureur. 

A fourth power in the Sorbonne of that day, whom we have not yet named — 
a concealed power, it is true, but respected even on account of his modesty — 
was a man who had taken as much trouble not to be known, and not to belong 
to the French Academy, as is taken by all men who write prose or verse to be- 
come celebrated and to join the Academy. The man to whom I refer possessed 
in his single mind as much learning, ingenuity, and talent, as these three speak- 
ers who made so much noise around his silence. He despised fame as strongly 
as ordinary men esteem it ; he descended from his pulpit as soon as he had no 
more to say ; and his last lesson finished, nothing could make him resume the 
course, so great was his dislike to repeating on the morrow what he had said the 
day before. This man, concealed as he kept himself, was one of the greatest 
characters of the time ; his talents were astounding, and had he possessed the 
slightest wish for it, he might have reigned at that period by his speech, just as 
M. Royer Collard did by his silence. His character was good, his integrity 
strict, his friendship sincere, his self-denial great. After having shone for two 
years in the revived Sorbonne, all the nothings of which he well knew, he re^ 



36 M. LAROMIGUIERE M. GUIZOT AS DEPUTT. 

tired from the philosophical arena, without ever having wished to make of his 
own opinions a sort of dogma without appeal, as has happened to all other phi- 
losophers, past and present. This man, whose name you have already guessed 
— you who have so surrounded him with friendship, devotedness, and respect — 
was M. Laromiguiere. 

You can best judge if he was not a great writer, an honest moralist, an inge- 
nious philosopher, an admirable pupil of Condillac's, who could never have 
hoped for such a pupil. He had reached doubt by all the paths which lead to 
belief, and within this indulgent doubt he enclosed himself, without ostentation, 
without vanity, naturally, and simply, as he has done in every event of his life. 
Such as he was, immoveable and silent in that Sorbonne which was agitated by 
so many different i)assions, M. Laromiguiere was, for all — for the scholars as 
well as for the masters — a useful, an excellent lesson. By his personal resigna- 
tion, he taught the scholars endurance and patience, which are the two great 
conditions of honorable life ; by his modest and assuming habits, he taught the 
masters loyalty, self-denial, and devotedness. But alas ! these noble lessons 
were lost upon pupils as well as masters ; the pupils did not understand them, the 
masters refused to listen to them; and M. Laromiguiere is now dead, leaving 
behind him an admirable book, without one single disciple who was worthy, or 
who would have accepted the permission, to replace this illustrious and excel- 
lent master. And now, what has become of the pupils of the three celebrated 
professors of the Sorbonne ? and what has become of the professors themselves, 
M. Guizot, M. Villemain, and M. Cousin ? The pupils have amused them- 
selves in bringing about a revolution, that they might immediately afterward 
settle down again as good citizens and good national guards, like their fathers ; 
the professors were first made deputies, and finding themselves deputies, each 
of them hoped at last to become a great orator. Most certainly this was an at- 
tempt in which M. Guizot did not fail. He has proved himself as eloquent a 
politician as a man of his stature could be, and ought to be, in the most diffi- 
cult circumstances. All the hopes to which he had given rise in the historian's 
pulpit, M. Guizot fulfilled in the French tribune ; he has governed by his speech, 
he has preserved the peace which M. Thiers did not desire ! M. Villemain 
was rather slower than M. Guizot in becoming a political speaker ; he hesitated 
long ; he was like an exquisite singer, who can not catch the tune of a new piece 
of the new opera. At last, however, M. Villemain recovered his rapture, his 
brilliancy, his enthusiasm, his irony ; it was the Chamber of Peers which per- 
formed this wonder. As for M. Cousin, once out of the pulpit, he pronounced 
with difficulty some confused words, to which men listened, on account of his 
past eloquence. But to return ; how well has M. Guizot proved that he was in 
fact born for the serious struggles of politics ! How suddenly he took upon 
him the positive tone of a member ! and, indeed, what talent and what courage 
were necessary, for the professor of the Sorbonne to oppose, as he did, M. 
Thiers, who had but just arrived in the arena, who had sworn obedience to no 
royalty ; a clever plebeian, sprung from the fruitful republican dust which Caius 
Gracchus hurled as he died. 

Such was the Sorbonne in 1825; it was powerful, honored, respected; dreaded 
for its words, dreaded for its silence. It was proud of these three men, who spoke 
so wonderfully in its newly-revived pulpits, while at the top of the edifice, under 
its burning or frozen roof, in its disordered library, it had M. Laromiguiere, whose 
pleasant irony was more expressive than the longest discourses. Thus were frus- 
trated the most confident hopes of the Restoration, thus were baffled its most 
natural plans. It had said that it would raise altar against altar; that it would 
oppose the Sorbonne to the College of France ; that within the enclosure of 
philosophy and literature, if the College of France represented the left side, the 
Sorbonne should represent the right .... Alas ! the left side was found every- 
where, by the expiring monarchy. Omnia pontus erat, as Ovid says, speaking of 
chaos. 

One of the fetes which brings summer into the Sorbonne — a brilhant fete for 
the child who is about to become a young man — is the distribution of the prizes 
among all the colleges of Paris and of Versailles. This is the hour anticipated 



FETE AT THE SORBONNE — CATHEDRAL OF SAINT DENIS. 37 

throughout the whole year, by young minds, impatient for the future. Shall 1 
tell you the expanding pride of the mothers, the animation of the children, the 
grave indifference of tlie professors, the number and the splendor of the crowns? 
At this fete of the princes of youth, you may hear mentioned with applause, all 
the great names of Paris, in politics, in literature, and in the arts ; for the chil- 
dren of 1804 have become in their turn fathers of families, and the son nobly 
recalls at the Sorbonne the name and the glory of his father. But again we 
are far from the point whence we started. You can scarcely take one step, with- 
out the appearance of the monuments around you, recalling to remembrance the 
men who built them, or the men who gave rise to their renown. But this is one 
of the all-powerful charms of Paris, which is so filled with facts and ideas, with 
emotions and recollections. How many singular histories, how many incredible 
stories, have I picked up, in running here and there, somewhat at hazard, as the 
city was built ! The mere recital of the hosts, or rather the lodgers of the Pa- 
risian Pantheon, would make one fancy he was in the midst of a fool's dream. 
And yet — vanity of glory ! false and cruel popularity ! scarcely had the people 
placed there their great men of a day, than they came to take them away again, 
that they might throw them in a ditch. Fy, then, fy ! upon this tarnished glory I 
Better far, to remain unknown all your hfe, better far to repose in some peaceful 
village churchyard, beneath a wooden cross, where your children will come to 
pray to God ! Wo to the dead whose tombs thus become the toy of political 
storms — Ludibria vends ! 

And also, wo to the nations which do not respect even the tombs of their 
dead, the vanished centuries, the great men who have prepared the future by 
their courage, their science, or their genius ! Shame upon the people — wo to 
the ungrateful men, who tear from their ancestors the last rags of their winding 
sheets ! Saint Denis, the city of the royal dead, the last asylum of this con- 
quered majesty ! to these sacred vaults Philip the Hardy brought upon his 
shoulders the bones of his father Saint Louis, walking barefoot from Paris. Once 
destroyed, the church was rebuilt by Sainte Genevieve, finished by King Dago- 
bert, protected by the Abbe Segur, that wise politician, of such unruffled ge- 
nius. The holy basilic acknowledges as its trusty and well-beloved founders, 
King Pepin and his son Charlemagne, who was himself present at its consecra- 
tion in 775, so that not one of the great names in French history was absent 
from these noble stones. The Gothic art never imagined anything more perfect 
and more magnificent. Never did higher vault shelter more royal tombs. The 
first of the kings of France who wished to repose there for ever, was Dagobert. 
A part of the race of Pepin was, for a long time, buried there ; King Pepin 
himself slept his last sleep in these vaults, by the side of Queen Bertha his 
wife, and not far from Louis and Carloman, the sons of Louis the Stammerer. 
Near these, you will find statues in stone of Clovis II. and Charles Martel. There 
are also cenotaphs to Philip the Hardy, and his terrible son Philip the Fair, the 
conqueror of the Normans, who had more than once pushed their insolent rava- 
ges even to the abbey of Saint Denis. 

Shall I tell you all the names of this ancient history ? By means of respectful 
care you will find them all, half eflfaced by revolutions, upon some of the old 
stones which still groan beneath the agony of kings ; Eudes, Hugo Capet, 
Robert, Constance d' Aries, Constance de Castille, the second wife of Louis the 
Young, whose first wife, after her divorce, furnished so many enemies to France, 
and so many kings to England. Salute with respect Louis the Gross, who in- 
creased the liberty of the commons, Louis X., the Mutinous, and the wife of 
Saint Louis, Margaret of Provence. But is it your pleasure to invoke, as in a 
funeral dream, all these kings and queens of history ? Hermintrude, Jane d'Ev- 
reux, Charles VIII., Philip the Long, Charles, the Fair, Jane of Burgundy, 
Philip of Valois, and the Count of Paris, Hugo the Great, the friend of the 
Normans, and Charles the Bald, the only one of these kings who was an Empe- 
ror — broken crowns and sceptres, ashes scattered to the winds ! Who else in 
this funeral list? Philip Count of Boulogne, Marie de Brabant his daughter, 
John Tristan Count de Nevers, Charles V. and Jane of Bourbon, Charles VI. 
and Isabella of Bavaria (reunited in death), Charles VII. — women, children, old 



38 TOMBS OF SAINT DENIS — ISLAND OF SAINT DENIS. 

men, kings who have died, kings who have lived ; and amid this royal dust, a few 
great men, carried there for having saved France — Bertrand Duguesclin, for in- 
stance. There also was interred Louis XII., the father of his people, in those 
unhappy times when the people knew only how to suffer and to die. There, in 
his splendid mausoleum, a masterpiece of the art of the sixteenth century, re- 
posed Francis I., as magnificent after his death as he had been during his life. 
All the tombs of the Valois hang together, as if with a presentiment of coming 
revolutions ; Henry II., Catherine de Medicis, and their eight children — eight 
children to leave no posterity upon the throne of France ! You may recog- 
nise Henry II. by the richness of his sarcophagus. Certainly, Philibert De- 
lorme had passed over these tombs to protect them with his genius. Then 
came — for they were ticketed, race by race — the tombs of the house of Bourbon, 
which had not its equal under the sun ; to count only from Louis XII. to Henry 
IV., there were thirty-one corpses ! without reckoning Louis XIII., who so long 
expected upon the cold stones his son Louis XIV; without reckoning Louis 
XIV., who so long expected his grandson Louis XV. This latter was also ex- 
pecting ; at last, one day, there was an arrival ; it was not the sexton ; it was the 
people who came. The stone of the royal tomb was broken, not raised, and the 
king interred there was thrown into his grave, with all the other kings of all the 
other races ; the innocent and the guilty, fathers of the people and tyrants, chil- 
dren, and women, and soldiers, and even the good Henry, and even M. de Tu- 
renne, who was treated by the people with little more respect than Saint Megrin 
himself, whose bones still smelt of the musk and amber, with which the favorite 
was impregnated during his life. Ashes scattered to the winds ! majesty in- 
sulted in death I tombs profaned 1 even the bones of their saints, the relics, 
the nail hanging to the cross, the hair of the Virgin, the crown, the sceptre, 
and the hand of justice of Henry the Great, the cup of the Abbe Segur, the 
golden eagle of King Dagobert, the crowns of Louis XIII. and Anne of Aus- 
tria ; and the head of Saint Denis the martyr, the same head that he brought to 
this place in his two hands ! O profanation ! the cloak of Saint Louis, still 
covered with the ashes which served for a funeral bed to this great king, and his 
hand of justice, which was his support under the oak of Vincennes, and the 
coronation crown of Louis the Great, and the rich manuscripts upon vellum, and 
the golden cross of Charles the Bald, and the seat of Charlemagne, and his 
crown, and his sceptre, and his sword, and his spurs — the fragile crown of Hen- 
rietta of England — the coronation dress of Louis XIV. ; all these relics, sacred 
and profane, all these marvels disappeared, thrown by the same senseless anger, 
to the same winds and the same abominable tempests of a revolution ! 

But after you have visited the tombs of Saint Denis, when you have saluted 
the last Conde in his bier, when you have crossed the vast space which thfe 
funeral arrow occupies in the heavens, do not forget to seek out a beautiful little 
spot, the way to which the Parisian so well knows, that he could go there with 
his eyes shut. This place of pleasure and amusement is the island of St. Denis. 
A thorough boatman in a straw hat will take you into his bark, and if you fancy 
the voyage, you may make with him the tour of the island, which is covered 
with turf and white houses. Assuredly, each of these little houses is inhabited 
by a fisherman. The greatest manufacturer of nets, sweep nets, lines, and all 
kinds of tackle for fishing, lives in the island of Saint Denis. A long belt of 
poplars surrounds the island with its waving verdure. Here is nothing but songs, 
fetes, lovers' appointments, endless gayeties. Once in the island of Saint Denis, 
you enjoy perfect liberty. No one recognises his friend. It is neutral ground ; 
every one is at home. The son does not acknowledge his father; the father 
turns away his eyes, that he may not see his son. How many husbands who do 
not recognise their wives ! But then how many are there, who speak to each 
other no longer, when they have once quitted the island of Saint Denis f 

Thus, at all times and in all places, we find the same contrasts. Flowers 
growing upon ruins ; trees in the most gloomy spots ; the smiling landscape 
not far from the most melancholy parts of the city ; Saint Genevieve at the 
Pantheon ; the freshest and happiest youths within the old walls of the Sor- 
bonne ; the PradM by the side of the Sainte Chapelle ; and not far from tlie 



THE CAFE PROCOPE — ITS FREQUENTERS. 39 

insulted tomb of so many kings, the joyous cries, the merry dances, the savory 
matelot of the island of Saint Denis ; it is always, as I told you in the early 
part of this chapter — Paris white and Paris black ! 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE CAFE PROCOPE. 



It seems to me, that I have wandered far from the spot where we found our- 
selves just now, far from the Sorbonne, where we heard those three celebrated 
orators ; indeed I imagine that before repairing to the vaults of Saint Denis, we 
stopped at the door of a public saloon, as famous in literary history as the 
French Academy. 

In fact we were upon the threshold of the Cafe Procope — now calm, silent, 
and stuped, like all the cafes in Paris. What a change ! The large room is 
almost deserted; two disciples of Hippocrates are playing dominos with a more 
important air, than if they were settling the destinies of an empire. Piled upon 
a table, lie unhonored, all the newspapers of the week ; poison and honey, bites 
and caresses, the slang of the markets and the most beautiful French language, 
ait and taste mingled with scandal and calumny ; such is this work of light and 
darkness. It is a pandemonium, the danger of which is passed at midday, for 
this single reason, that it will recommence to-morrow. And yet this calm spot, 
this deserted room, these tables, around which there is no longer any agitation, 
all this silence — is the Cafe Procope, it is that spot in this immense city, where 
French causerie has exhibited its most lively impatience, its most dangerous 
zeal ; all its briefs, all its paradoxes, all its scandals, all its resistance, all its op- 
position. To the Cafe Procope resorted, as to a common rendezvous of wit, 
eloquence, and vivacity, the men, who, in their play, have overthrown a religion 
and a monarchy ; Voltaire, Piron, Diderot, d'Alembert, the Baron d'Holbach, 
the Baron de Grimm, the bold and intrepid Gilbert, J. B. Rousseau, who made 
himself hated for his hateful satires, and sometimes, J. J. Rousseau himself, 
when, overcoming his natural timidity, he dared to meet the rapture, wit, and 
raillery of these men. There v/as so much noise you could not hear yourself 
speak, there were Utopias beyond all imagination. People talked of everything 
and many things beside. The one party proclaimed liberty, equality, and natu- 
ral rights ; while their opponents violently defended established order, and re- 
pulsed with all their power the advancing revolution. Useless efforts ! the rev- 
olution was to become the strongest, and to draw with it, all men, the conquered 
and the conquerors, the feeble and the strong, those who were in advance of the 
age, and those who were far behind it. Of all the intellect expended in the 
Cafe Procope, of the eloquent, overflowing abundance of Diderot, within these 
four walls, what now remains ? A glass of eau sucree, a marble table, and a 
game of dominos ! 

I have also, not without emotion, traversed the whole island of Saint Louis, 
an unknown neighborhood, a city forgotten within the city. At the point of 
the island, formerly stood, disdainful and proud, the Hotel Lambert. The ceil- 
ings were covered with the rarest specimens of art, the walls were laden with 
the noblest paintings. The palace of Farnese, the work of the Carracci, is not 
more splendid and magnificent. All the great artists of the great age counted 

it an honor, and a duty, to embellish this rich dwelling O profanation ! 

the gallery of Lebrun has become a deposite for military beds ; the rich cabi- 
nets where you might behold the most wonderful remains of Lesueur's genius, 
the vast saloons, the cabinet of love, the cabinet of the muses, the beautiful works 
<af Herman Van Swanevelt, the magnificent chambers by Francois Perrier, 



40 THE HOTEL LAMBERT ANTIQUARIANS. 

Francois Romanelli, Patel ; the interminable refectory where the whole city 
used to dine, where all that was young and beautiful, and witty, and powerful, 
and rich, was welcome ; this rendezvous of art, and taste, and genius, and im- 
agination, which makes something out of nothing — this elegant dwelling bought 
by Voltaire, but never inhabited by him, through which J. J. Rousseau passed 
when the Hotel Lambert belonged to M. Dupin the fanner-general — that Gal- 
lery of Hercules, in which Napoleon held his last council during the Hundred 
Days — is nothing but a ruin, open to every wind that blows. Singular Paris ! 
singular misery ! strange society ! what strange men ! they go here and there, 
picking up the slightest toys of former times ; they buy at an extravagant rate, 
worm-eaten furniture, pieces of broken porcelain, the least relics of former li- 
cense and grandeur ; the possession of the smallest canvass of Watteau's, of 
Lancret's, or of some dauber of the last century, is disputed with fury by the 
amateurs ; but if the question is to save an exquisite gallery, adorned by the 
best and most illustrious masters in all the arts, not one purchaser presents him- 
self, not one man who will accept this glory, for which the artists would so 
warmly thank him ! But perhaps they ask a high price for the Hotel Lambert ? 
This noble house, built and filled with these beautiful works, would be sold, for 
what is barely the price of a few metres of land, on the Place de la Bourse, or 
near the galleries of the Palais Royal. 

There were also splendid paintings in the Hotel Bretonvilliers, which is fall- 
ing into ruins just like the Hotel Lambert. All these noble houses, once in- 
habited by so many honorable magistrates, now shelter, although in very small 
numbers, some of the poor creatures, who are too poor to pass their lives in the 
dark, unwholesome streets, in the narrow, dirty houses, in the noisy crossways, 
in all the joys of the Parisian. A melancholy abode this island of Saint Louis, 
with so goodly a prospect, so well placed on the borders of the river, so well 
surrounded by water and verdure ! But silence, repose, sleep, are joys which 
appear so many torments, to our gentlemen the inhabitants of Paris ! 

It must also be acknowledged, that, for the most part, the eager Parisian an- 
tiquarians whom you meet at the sale of national antiquities — the amateurs who 
tear from each other, by the power of gold, these fragments and rags, are, in 
fact, urged onward, not by science, not by a veneration for past times, not by a 
platonic love for historical things, but simply by the fashion, by vanity, by the pit- 
iful desire to ornament in an original way, their bed-rooms, their parlors, their 
little boudoirs, which are a thousand times unworthy of such precious relics. 
Tell them of a curious morceau which will stand upon a chimney-piece or a 
bracket, the antiquarians of the Chaussee d'Antin are all excitement ; they will 
go and pay dearly enough for this middle-age so easily transported. Tell them 
of a really beautiful thing to save, at twenty leagues' distance from the Ptue du 
Mont Blanc, or even on the other side of the Seine, you speak to the deaf, you 
question the dumb, you address yourself to the blind ! True antiquarians are 
very rare in this city of gewgaws, of vanities and caprices, the city without rec- 
ollection, without veneration, without respect ! She has no forefathers, she will 
have no grandsons. She has made of past times a diversion, a declamation : 
she will be the plaything, or more properly speaking, she will be the first obliv- 
ion of the future. Those antiquarians, who yet remained to Paris, the enthu- 
siastic friends of the great French artists whose names they taught to their 
century — Jean Goujon, Jean Cousin, Germain Pilon, Philibert Delorme, Jean 
Bullant — Paris lost in the same year ; M. du Sommerard, the master of the 
Hotel Cluny ; and especially M. Lenoir. Tv/o men of very different destiny ! 
M. du Sommerard was the rich antiquarian, active and faithful, who obeys a 
passion, and has the means of satisfying it, even to the end : M. Lenoir was the 
poor, timorous, discontented, unhappy antiquarian, much to be pitied, whose 
passion has twice failed him, and who at last died alone, deprived of the most 
beautiful things, not purchased with money, but which he had saved at the risk 
of his life. 

The death of M. Alexandre Lenoir was a great misfortune, for on that day, 
the arts lost, if not their most eminent, at least their most courageous defender. 
In those times of shameful memory, at the fatal moment when, the whole French 



M. LENOIR — ROTAL TOMBS — M. DU SOMMERARD. 41 

society was murdered upon the scaffold, the wretches who regretted that France 
was not comprised in one single head, in order that it might be cut off at a single 
blow, began to attack the oldest monuments of this great and living history. 
They commenced a crusade against chefs d'oeuvre, axe in hand, cutting down 
without remorse, the altar of God, the throne of the king, the tomb of the dead ; 
and yet in the general stupor, not one voice was raised against the bloodthirsty 
profaners. It will be told to the dishonor of the age, and to the shame of the 
country— statues were suffered to be mutilated, as if they were only living heads ; 
museums were dispersed, as if nothing but the relics of saints; from the books 
of the royal library were torn the covers stamped with the fleur de lis, too happy 
if they escaped forming a large fire. Alone, in this multitude of cowards, a 
poor man, who was nothing but an antiquarian, followed the track of these sad 
profanations. Alas ! he could prevent nothing ; he could not preserve from de- 
struction, a single one of those chefs d'oeuvre which were so basely injured, but 
he could groan aloud, but he could follow the spoilers closely, and of this 
France in shreds, he could gather up some remnants, with a pious respect. 
This is exactly what he did ; this man who showed himself to be more coura- 
geous than even Madame Roland ; he disputed, piece by piece, morsel by mor- 
sel, all these brutal spoliations ; he assembled in his house, all these melancholy 
remnants of the great centuries, the stones condemned to death, the massacred 
marbles, the emblems, the paintings, the virgins, the kings and queens, the an- 
cient honor of history ; the constables, the admirals, the chiefs of the magis- 
tracy ; notched swords, broken sceptres, torn ermines, a frightful assemblage 
of mutilations and outrages. Yes, he dared to pick up these relics, even before 
the multitude, in the very presence of the executionei-s themselves. It was he, 
he alone, who dared to defend, in full Sorbonne, the tomb of Cardinal Richelieu. 
This tomb was the masterpiece of Girardon, the well-loved sculptor of Louis 
XIV. A blow from a bayonet, stretched M. Lenoir at the foot of Richelieu's 
tomb ; but, as he fell, he thanked his tormentors, for the beautiful marble was 
saved. You can not doubt, that, although the only one among the honest peo- 
ple of France, he yet assisted, at the insolent opening of that great royal ditch 
called the Abbey of Saint Denis. He was the witness of that dreadful reaction 
of the populace against the kings, which commenced with Dagobert, and fin- 
ished with Louis XV. And you may judge of his dismay, when all these royal 
races, withdrawn from the funereal night, strewed with their remains the sepul- 
chral flags. Well ! in these frightful circumstances of modern history, M. Le- 
noir's courage did not fail him ; he gathered up the scattered bones, and as the 
crowd stopped respectfully before a soldier, whose gray mustache they thought 
they recognised, M. Lenoir pronounced the name of Henry IV. ; at that great 
name, all the red caps bowed. From the abbey of Saint Denis, the ruffians 
went to all the churches in Paris, to Notre Dame, to Saint Germain I'Auxer- 
rois, to Saint Eustache, to Saint Germain des Pres, overthrowing and demol- 
ishing everything in their passage. But always, after these bands, arrived the. 
worthy antiquarian, collecting, saving, protecting these spoils, and when he 
could save nothing, he returned home, his hands empty, his heart swelling with 
grief; he had lost his day. Poor man ! no one admired him for his devoted- 
ness, or his courage ; no one, not even the lawful monarch, thanked him for the 
many wrecks he had saved ; and yet the little that France knew of the facts and 
the monarchy of former days, it owed in part to M. Lenoir. 

The other antiquarian whom France lost, shortly after the death of M. Le- 
noir, was M. du Sommerard. All those, throughout intelligent Europe, who 
take an interest in ancient poetry, in the manners, the habits, the furniture, the 
costumes of former days, know the name of M. du Sommerard. He was one 
of the first honorably to reinstate the thorough and minute study of the history 
of France. Of the nameless shreds, the worm-eaten remnants, the dust of ages 
collected at so great a price, M. du Sommerard composed at once a poem and 
a history ; a poem full of ingenious fictions, a history in positive proofs. M. 
du Sommerard was avowedly the man of his favorite passion. Although now 
by a recent law, the French Chamber of Deputies have adopted this noble mu- 
seum, of which they have made a national glory, M. du Sommerard had never 



42 A FRENCH BISHOP — ^A LUCKY ESCAFE. 

felt the ambition of forming a museum, but simply an admirable collection of 
all kinds of forms, of relics, of tatters, which he alone could understand. Be- 
fore becoming a museum, his house was at first an immense accumulation 
of things, the future value of which he well knew. 

History will doubtless tell you, and with much more anger and indignation 
than we do, by what a succession of profanations, all the past of France was 
thus injured and desti'oyed, in the year 1793. With equal certainty, when ar- 
rived at this sad chapter of murder and ravages, history will consult the notes 
that M. du Sommerard has collected ; the statues and bronzes sold by auction, 
the populace assembling tumultuously around the cathedrals, and with horrible 
delight making a bonfire of the paintings and the images ; the church of Sens 
deprived of its statues; Saint Etienne du Mont robbed of the bas-reliefs of Ger- 
main Pilon ; at Mayence, the Descent from the Cross by the same artist broken 
in pieces ; at Gisors, the windows of the church reduced to dust by blows from 
stones ; at Strasburg, the statues of the cathedral falling by thousands ; every- 
where, in fact, wherever art and civilization had passed, at Meudon, at Soissons, 
at Marfontaine, at Port Malo, at Saint L6, at Coutances, at Port Briene, spoli- 
ation, and ravages, the most senseless and the most melancholy fury had left 
traces of their passage. " The Vandals of the fifth century never destroyed so 
many masterpieces," often repeated M. du Sommerard. Now you can 
believe, that it was a great act of courage in these frightful days, to dare only to 
pick up the smallest fragment which had escaped the rage of the Vandals, the 
Visigoths, and the Ostragoths of the Reign of Terror. 

Apropos of M. Lenoir and M. du Sommerard, I have heard it said of a 
learned bishop, the honor of French episcopacy, that one day he was walking 
with much alarm, in the garden of Versailles. How the gardens were changed ! 
The beautiful turf, which the greatest beauties of the court scarcely pressed 
with their delicate feet, had been faded by the trampling of a vile and furious 
populace; the solitary alleys where walked, formerly, Bousset and the great 
Conde, had been devastated and ruined by the hundred-armed Briareus ; in the 
basins, the waters plashed sadly around naiads whose urn was broken ; through 
that still half-opened window, the alarmed eye could discern the violent mutila- 
tions of the canaille. — In the garden all was silent. The crowd had gone with 
the king and queen of France, carried off in the same tornado. Our pious bish- 
op, then young, walked sadly through the desert, when among the wrecks with 

which the ground was strewed, he discovered a decapitated head Do 

not be alarmed, it was a marble head ; some beautiful countenance of a severe 
and chaste antique statue, MineiTO, Juno, Proserpine or the mother of the Gracchi, 
Cornelia. It was so beautiful, even thus, that our young man could not resist 
the inclination to carry home with him the noble sculpture. From the garden 
and the palace of Versailles, to pass to a mansard in the Rue Saint Jacques, af- 
ter having been the guest of Louis XIV. and Louis XV., to inhabit only the 
chamber of a proscribed priest, of one condemned beforehand ! Such was the 
"history of this beautiful marble ; but at that time happy was he, who knew 
where to find a hiding-place for the night, sure of becoming a wanderer again 
on the morrow. 

At last, after much hesitation, the young Levite took possession of the bro- 
ken head, and concealing it under his cloak, he carried it off, prouder and hap- 
pier than the Chevalier Desgrieux, when the beautiful Manon conveyed him 
beyond the walls of Saint Sulpice. Arrived at the gate of the garden, our 
young antiquarian is stopped by a terrorist of the place. " What are you car- 
rying under your cloak, thief?" And seeing the noble head which had come 
from so great a distance, from Rome, or perhaps from Greece, to be thus muti- 
lated after an interval of two thousand years, "Ah," cried the bandit, " here is the 
queen's head, I must have yours in return." 

And immediately, the trembling abbe is led to the district. "I am ruined," 
says he to himself; "it will be found out that I am a gentleman and a priest." 
He enters. The president questions him. Fortunately for him the president 
conceals a noble heart under his carmagnole, and a clear head under his red 
cap. " What has this citizen done ?" he asks the accuser. — "He has stolen a 
statue ," replies he. — " A statue ?" answers the president, " it is impossible. 



THE HOTEL DE CLUNY. 43 

You could not have been carrying a statue ! He has only taken a piece of the 
tyrant's marble. Let him go, and give him back his marble." 

But to return to M. du Sommerard. By means of care and respectful re- 
search, was formed in the mind of this excellent man, a kind of history in ex- 
amples, in models, in relics, to which nothing could be compared. He had re- 
alized the whole history of France, but of France studied in detail, in the chap- 
els, the manors, the palaces of her kings, in the cemeteries of her churches, in 
the houses of her citizens. This people of France whom the historian shows 
you in action, in battle, in belief, M. dii Sommerard saw — not fighting, not in 
the action itself — but he knew, the hour before and after it, how the soldier was 
dressed, and what mail the captain wore, and how the scarf was woven which 
the fair damsel waved from the top of her tower, and by whom the tower had 
been built, and on what instrument the favorite page played, and what sculptor 
had embellished the high portal. Thus supported by such incontestable ex- 
amples, he reduced the whole history to a thousand little details of the greatest 
amusement ; carpets, ribands, garments, windows, halberds, laces, dresses for 
the ladies, armor for the heroes, books for the learned ; he knew the condition of 
the people under Charlemagne by their cabinets ; he knew the position of the 
court in the time of Francis I. by their dishes and plates. It was a strange and 
rare history of which he had suppressed all the noise, all the movements, all the 
facts, all the clamor, and left nothing but the external appearance. The hotel 
de Cluny, thus furnished by three historical centuries, was, strictly speaking, 
the palace of the sleeping beauty in the wood. All slept, all passed, all grew old. 
Our grandmothers would not dare to wear the dress of the young woman lying 
there ; but suddenly, at the sound of the horn, all this banished past returns to 
life, and with life, comes grace, strength, youth; the sleeping lady was but little 
in the fashion just now, but once awoke, she is young, smiling, and blooming, 
her beautiful large blue eyes express much astonishment. . . . The sleep of a 
century is over; all reappears at the sound of the horn, in this palace of sleep, 
youth, bloom, and beauty. 

This awakening sound of the horn you have heard, in the histories of M. de 
Barante, and M. Guizot, and M. Thierry ; they also have restored life and mo- 
tion to these inert forms, they have thrown light into this profound darkness ; 
but yet in rendering justice to the historian who animates and forms, let us not 
forget the patient, skilful devoted men, who preserve palaces, and castles, and 
sceptres, and swords, and old furniture ; all the necessary decoration, all the ma- 
terial of history. 

The hotel de Cluny, thanks to M. du Sommerard, is so well-known that it is 
useless to repeat a description so often given. The learned and benevolent an- 
tiquarian did not wish to keep all his riches to himself; on the contrary, he did 
the honors of his house very willingly. There was one day in each week when 
all the lovers of historical relics were welcome in the old mansion. You 
first entered the chapel (1490), which was in excellent preservation ; and there 
suddenly among the canopies, the wreaths, the grapes, the vine branches, the 
emblazoned arms of Charles VIH., and Louis XH., you will find yourself in 
full middle age. Here the altarpiece of the abbey of Everborn, ornamented 
with the finest Flemish figures ; farther off the beautiful portable crosses, the 
ostensorium, in gilt copper (1304), the cross of red ivory, the chorister's stick, 
and farther still, the embroidered apparatus of copes, and chasubles, and stoles, 
and tunics, and the colors of Limoges, and the Grecian encaustic paintings; the 
reading desk, and upon it, beautiful manuscripts, one of which bears the arms 
of Henry HI. ; the illusion is such, that you inhale the old incense of the ora- 
tory, a vanished incense, an obedient and faithful incense, which has returned 
in the train of all this religious art. 

From the chapel you pass into the chamber of Francis I., or rather of Queen 
Blanche, and here you have before you an entire collection of all the magnifi- 
cence, royal or popular, of past ages. The door of this chamber of Francis L 
had been the door of the chateau d'Anet ; a discreet door with a sill of ivory 
and gold, which remembers Diana of Poictiers and Henry II. The chess- 
board had belonged to Saint Louis. A city of France had offered this rare 



44 DEATH OF M. DU SOMMERARD LONGCHAMPS. 

treasure to Louis XVIII. ; Louis XVIII. , who cared for nothing but his throne 
and his repose, gave the chess-board of the pious king to a man in his house- 
hold, and this man sold it to M. du Sommerard. Vanity of associations and of 
respect ! 

The bed in this room of Francis I. was in fact that of the knight king. The 
frieze panel was painted by Primaticcio, the Christ is by Albert Durer ; here 
are the stiri-ups and the spurs of the king of France ; here is the complete ar- 
mor, the buckler, the helmet, the armed vizor, the Spanish dagger, the good 
lance of Toledo, as modern drama has since called it, the haulmes, the morions, 
the head-pieces, the partisans, the lances, the arquebuses, the gauntlets, the 
knee-caps — all the apparatus of the soldier and the knight. 

But now comes in its turn, the paraphernalia of the coquette ; the mirrors, 
the worked toilet-covers, the wooden distaff and its spindles ; the medallion of 
Francis I., the purses, until at last, in the great saloon, you find the entire col- 
lection of ebonies, images, crystals, little figures, Italian, Flemish, and French 
ivory, mosaics in hard stone, birds, landscapes, cornelians, inlaid work, shells, 
miniatures, cabinets, china, bas-reliefs, jugs, coffers that are named in Brantome, 
plate, low cupboards, all the apparatus of good living, vases as brilliant as gold, 
cups, basins, glasses, the massive Flemish sideboard, everything clever or in- 
genious that has ever been produced by the manufacturers of Faenza, of Mont- 
pellier, of Limoges, of Flanders, and of France, in a word, the finest works of 
Bernard Palissy, and his pupils. How joyous these banquets must have been! 
what bon mots! what merry jokes ! what Gallic wit ! 

Such was the admirable collection to which the stranger knew the way, and 
of which the Parisian was proud, as he is proud of his Louvre and his Jardin- 
des-Plantes. By his hospitable benevolence, M. du Sommerard still more in- 
creased the interest of his museum. He did its honors with exquisite polite- 
ness, explaining everything after the fashion of a very learned man, who has not 
lost his right of imagination and of invention. But M. du Sommerard is dead; 
he died at Meudon, speaking of the passion which had occupied his life ; but 
he died, not like an antiquarian, in the darkness of the hotel de Cluny, within 
the ancient walls, under the worm-eaten canopies, beneath beams as old as the 
house of Valois ; no, he had better objects for his last view, trees laden with 
fruit, leaves still green, limpid water, and a clear sky. Thus vanished, beneath 
a brilliant ray of the sun, all the clouds, all the mysteries, all the dust which 
had been the joy of this worthy man. And so, however a man may like to live 
among antiquities, he prefers to die beneath the trees and the sun. 

But what are we doing? and what fancy has seized us, ever and anon, to sad- 
den the happy pages of a splendid book, with these recollections of deaths and 
funerals? Come, let us no longer talk of these miseries, let us throw off the 
funeral crape, let us be calm and happy! Let us turn to the alley of the Champs 
Elysees ; it is truly the carrousel of the spring fetes, and summer pleasures. 
For instance, the promenade of Longchamps, where will you find a more ani- 
mated sight? We are in the last days of the holy week. Easter already 
throws its green palms in the forest, Passion Wednesday is not far off, and yet, 
there is suddenly a strife as to which can show the richest ornaments, the new- 
est dresses, the most magnificent harness, the most modern carriages. This 
day a trial is made of elegance, of luxury, of the toilet, of brilliancy ; the prome- 
ade at once assumes a grave and imposing appearance. People are no longer 
there merely to exhibit themselves, but to be judged. At this moment, every 
lady trembles for her empire, every cavalier for his horse. She would fain be 
so beautiful ! He would fain appear so well-mounted ! Both the one and the 
other, in order that they may be better seen, go slowly ; they cross the crowd 
which looks at them ; and among that crowd stand most attentively — for they 
play an important part in this affair — the milliner who has decorated the bon- 
nets, the seamstress who has trimmed the stuffs, the coachmaker who has fitted 
up the carriages, the dealer who has sold the horses on credit. They see them- 
selves pass in all their glory, they applaud themselves, they admire their own 
work. For them, this day will decide the success of the next season ; it is a 



PAKIS A COqUETTE — THE TEAR 2440. 45 

question of popularity or death. In fact, to succeed here is the whole history 
of the men and women, the poets and artists, the orators and soldiers, the mer- 
chants and coquettes of the city of Paris ! 



CHAPTER V. 

PARIS A COQUETTE. 



The good city of Paris has in every age, contained some of those original 
dreamers, those singular minds, which often seem to have the art of attaining 
truth, by all kinds of ingenious and charming pleasantries. Such were the wri- 
ters of the satire Menippee, such was Rabelais, and such D'Aubigne, the cele- 
brated author of a book which the French do not sufficiently esteem, the Baron 
de Pheenesie; such was Sainte Foy, one of the most agreeable writers of his 
time, Duclos, the man at once honest and cunning, as J. J. Rousseau said, and 
the important author of the Caracteres de ce Siecle, Labruyere, and Moliere, 
without forgetting the charming railler of such real genius, to whom France 
owes the Persian letters, that living history of Parisian manners. In all times, 
the city of Paris has loved that people should speak to her, to herself, of her- 
self; all the writers who have occupied themselves with her manners and his- 
tory, have been certain of her kindness and indulgence. In this particular, she 
resembles the coquettes, who love to look at themselves in the glass. Thus, 
after having read the great novelists, the excellent historians of the Parisian 
world, I have turned my attention to less-celebrated beholders, I have put my- 
self in the track of the street observers, the moralists of the crossway, the le- 
gendaries of the Pont Neuf. In Paris, above all, the clever men who talk a 
little at random, the good patriots, the discontented who ridicule everything, are 
numerous, and may be found in every place, in the cafes, in the gardens, in the 
Palais Royal, on the boulevards, wherever people talk, and above all, wherever 
people listen. Well ! of all these speakers and writers of the elegant and un- 
ceremonious race of Diogenes, he whom I prefer, is a man named Mercier. 
This Mercier, among other very curious paradoxes, which he has lavished, as 
the prodigal lavishes his gold, has written a book called. The Year two thousand 
four hundred and forty. I have read this book, and what proves better than 
anything we can say, the progress of the Parisian world, is, that Mercier's dream, 
the fabulous tale which certainly passed in his own days for a fool's imagination, 
is accomplished, not as he barely hoped, in six hundred and seventy-two years, 
but in less than sixty years at most. What a city, in which if Epimeridus were 
to sleep twenty years, he would not recognise, on waking, the place in which he 
composed himself to rest ! 

Mercier supposes then, that he goes to sleep in 1768, and that he wakes in 
the midst of Paris, after having slept six hundred and seventy-two years. You 
can imagine how complete is the surprise of our sleeper; he can see with a 
glance of the eye, all the streets which are such thoroughfares, all the elegant, 
well-lighted and well-aired houses. Almost before he is awake, his old dress 
annoys him, with its faded and absurd embroidery ; he lays by his sword, his 
three-cornered cap, and takes a round hat, a frock coat, and a cane. He shakes 
the powder from his hair, which reassumes its natural color. His neck is warm- 
ly wrapped in a good cravat ; his foot is enclosed in handsome shoes or boots ; 
he no longer resembles a marquis, but to make amends for this, he looks like a 
man. Thus clad, he notices that the streets are neat and clean, that the car- 
riages are driven carefully, and run over no one ; the streets which bore bad 
names have received the names of the greatest men in France ; the Pont-au- 
Change is relieved from the abominable houses which encumbered it. He 



A6 MERCIER's dreams — ALLEGORY. 

dreams also — delightful dream ! that the Bastille is demolished, and that its 
frightful stones are scattered here and there throughout the world. In the 
meantime, the garden of the Tuileries is open to all pedestrians ; the Hotel 
Dieu is cleansed ; in the purified house of the Bicetre there are no longer cells, 
in which madmen are confined like wild beasts ; the powder-magazine is removed 
to a distance from the city. Every one throughout France enjoys fi'eedom of 
speech, and the liberty of writing as he pleases ; a monument is raised to Cor- 
neille, to Moliere, to La Fontaine. In the colleges, Latin, Greek, and history, 
are rarely learned, but the greatest attention is paid to the French language. 
Having reached the site of the Sorbonne, our man asks himself where is the 
Sorbonne. There is no longer a Sorbonne, that is to say, there are no longer 
theologians who burn people, philosophers who condemn them. He dreamed 
also, at that time, that the ocean and the Mediterranean, that England and Italy, 
that Prussia and Spain, were at the gates of Paris — the dream is accomplished, 
it is surpassed a hundred times; steam and railroads have given to Europe, the 
unity which it previously wanted. Could Mercier now return to the world, how 
would he start, alamied and delighted, to find his dreams exceeded by the 
reality ! 

But night comes upon the city of the year 2440, and immediately, thanks to 
a thousand brilliant fires, it is as light as day. But the clearness which illumi- 
nates the streets every evening, the blazing gas which circulates in the air, like 
water in the stream — this is what Mercier never dared to imagine. He also 
dreamed — and this is fulfilled — that the city was guarded by a citizen militia, 
that the sons of the king were educated with the children of the people, that the 
dead man was never removed from his house until after twenty-four hours of 
hope and respect, that the cemeteries abandoned inhabited neighborhoods to 
take refuge upon the heights. Already, even at that time, Mercier dreamed 
that in the Works of Voltaire, the all-powerful king, several useless volumes 
could be retrenched. They do better than this in France, they no longer read 
any but the creditable passages of his complete works, no longer do they play 
Mahomet, nor Rome Sauvee, nor the American Alzire ; even the Henriade has 
scarcely left its name upon the list of epic poems. He dreamed also, good man 
(I speak of Mercier), that the writers in the kingdom of wit, would at last put an 
end to their calumnies and their abuse ; the prediction will be accomplished, 
but much later, and when the time of which he dreamed is forgotten. One idle 
day, our man of the year two thousand four hundred and forty went to the 
French Academy ; it had preserved its name, but the number of academicians 
was no longer limited. At that time, to obtain admittance into its learned en- 
closure, it was not enough to be a bishop, a duke and peer, or marshal of France. 
The proverb which said, " No one can enter the Academy without an equipage,''^ 
had been abolished. 

The same changes had taken place in the exhibition of painting ; sanguinary 
battles, and the atrocious crimes committed by the children of fable, were pro- 
scribed : the heathen divinities remained concealed in their shame. Henry IV. 
feeding the city which he besieges. Sully, Trajan, Marcus Aurelius — such were 
the heroes of modern painting. Pictures were no longer exposed, in the street, 
to every wind, but were placed in the Louvre, in the midst of the vast galleries ; 
even the Louvre itself was open to foreign artists. At last, France, aroused 
from its unjust prejudices, acknoAvledged as great masters, too long neglected, 
Poussin and Lesueur, and all justice was rendered to them. Allegory was not 
forbidden, but it must be clear, distinct, and lively. Wretched heretics, con- 
sumed on the pyre, illustrated the ages of ignorance and barbarism. The eigh- 
teenth century was represented by a beautiful woman, of threatening aspect ; 
her bare neck and arms were loaded with diamonds and pearls ; her cheek was 
covered with paint, her smile was seductive and deceitful ; two rose-colored rib- 
ands concealed the chains which bound her hands ; her dress was magnificent, 
but the hem of it was stained with mud. This woman had several pale, wretch- 
ed children ; in vain did she try to hide them beneath her purple cloak, the livid 
countenances of the poor little things appeared through the holes of her mantle. 
They asked food with cries and tears ; the mother, with a sparing hand, gave 



DEFINITION OF A GENTLEMAN — POOR NOBILITY. 47 

them black bread. The background of the painting represented superb cas- 
tles, marble palaces, vast forests peopled by stags and deer; the horn resound- 
ed from afar; joy, feasting, and abundance, were seen in these rich dwellings: 
but the surrounding country was badly cultivated ; the laborer, worn out with 
fatigue, died of hunger upon his sheaves of corn ; taxes and salt duty de- 
voured the substance of these unhappy creatures. So much for painting. As 
for sculpture, it had again become the grave serious art, of the palmy days 
of Greece and Rome. The sculptor would have blushed, to chisel heads 
without glory, or countenances without modesty ; he reseiTed his work for great 
men, and noble actions. He knew that marble is immortal, and must not be 
abused. Engraving naturally obeyed the two arts which it is destined to render 
popular ; the revolution was the same in all the arts. 

This man had yet another dream ; he dreamed that the ladies married with- 
out dowry. He dreamed also — and this explains the luithout dmvry — that all 
the young women were gentle, modest, and patient, that their language was kind 
and free from affectation, and that all their delight was to bring up their chil- 
dren, and not to appear beautiful and well-dressed. In desperate cases, he sum- 
moned divorce to the aid of mamed people. What is very strange in all this, 
is, that even in France, this dream of divorce has not been unfulfilled. Divorce 
has visited the laws of these people, and it has left them as it entered them, 
without making any great change in their manners. 

The chapter on commerce is no less singular than the chapter on taxes. 
" Taxes," says our dreamer, " will only be paid by willing men." As for com- 
merce, Mercier has ideas upon this subject, which the different customhouses 
of Europe have not adojited. He proscribes with one stroke of the pen, tea. 
coffee, and tobacco — three great sources of revenue, three great causes of 
pleasure. And here we launch into one of those dissertations, which were so 
dear to the philosophers of last century. The question was thus put — it was a 
grave one, although it appears ridiculous to us now : Can a gentleman be al- 
lowed to engage in trade ? The Marquis de Lasay — one of the malcontents of 
the year 1736, the author of several songs much liked by the black and gray 
musketeers — maintained that trade was the loss of all nobility ; but M. de 
Lasay was answered by the example of the English nobility ; one of their peers, 
Lord Oxford, had a brother who was a manufacturer at Aleppo ; the minister 
of state, Lord Townshend, was one of the city merchants. It was a great sub- 
ject of debate ; people stopped at that definition of a gentleman which says, 
He is a gentleman ivho can serve his country gratis. Yes, but at least, the coun- 
try or the king must employ all these servants, even for nothing ; otherwise, 
what will become of them in idleness 1 who will give them the food and cloth- 
ing of each day ? Leave the nobles in their castles, and they will be besieged 
there by famine ; and besides, why wish to condemn a whole race to misery ? 
why forbid them this privilege ? You will make officers of them, say you — 
but in time of peace, France is contented with seven hundred and twenty thou- 
sand soldiers, under the conduct of fifteen thousand officers. Louis XIV. 
himself, when he made war on the whole of Europe, commanded five hundred 
thousand men, guided at most by thirty thousand officers. What is this, for so 
many people ? Fifteen thousand places to give, in a kingdom of thirty thou- 
sand square leagues, without counting Lorraine, and when each square league 
reckons two noble houses, each house containing six gentlemen, which makes 
three hundred and sixty thousand officers, for thirty thousand places at most ! 

And if, to these, you add the nobility of the cities, you will reach the number 
of five hundred and forty thousand individuals, who dare not confess their pov- 
erty, because they are noble. But now, run through these seigneurial estates 
which can not support their lords — these farms, the harvest of which is seized 
beforehand — these castles which crumble to dust, and of which nothing remains 
but the escutchen attached to their fronts, and tell us what is to become of so 
many poor men, crushed beneath their nobility ? Permit them, then to make their 
fortunes by trade. It is a useful profession, which returns more than it costs, 
which needs all arms and all minds. Permit these gentlemen to cultivate the 
land, to drain marshes, to seek throughout the world, the elements of fortune — 



48 THE SEA — MERCIER'S FORESIGHT. 

navigation, agriculture, marriage, iiindred, labor — all things which are connect- 
ed by a necessary bond ; let the nobility become rich, and they will become 
great. Commerce has drained the marshes of Holland ; nobility has ruined 
Poland. Let us take pity on these unhappy gentlemen, who for want of a little 
money, are deprived even of necessaries ; with difficulty do they keep the por- 
tion which returns to them, of the corn and wine which France produces. It 
is not for them, that Abbeville weaves her cloths, Lyons her silks, Beauvais her 
tapestry ; it is not for them, that Valenciennes produces her laces, that Paris 
sends to every place her glasses and her fashions ; for them, that the colonies 
cultivate sugar, coffee, and cotton. Luxury is not within their reach; only too 
happy are they, when they have a coat to cover them. Do not then, force them 
to confine themselves within the barren limits of their devastated estates. Land 
fails them in their own country, let them take possession of the sea, that one of 
all inheritances of which vionarchs claim the greatest share, said Cardinal Riche- 
lieu, and yet it is the one, over which every man has a right. The real titles 
of this dominion are might, and not right. And indeed, what a fine inheritance 
for those who have no other. With one hand, France touches the Mediterra- 
nean — with the other, the Ocean. Colbert had thrown a bridge across the sea, 
but under Louis XV. this bridge crumbled in every direction. England is ev- 
erywhere with twenty thousand sail, and a hundred and fifty thousand sailors 
employed in her traffic. But what are our gentlemen about, in this universal 
eagerness ? They go to Versailles imploring favors from the king ; to lawful 
gain they prefer royal alms. Themistocles said in his time, " He who is master 
of the sea is master of all." Why banish from the sea, the most intelligent men 
in France ? And finally, on which side is honor, decency, importance, dignity, 
true nobility — on the side of the gentlemen, who spend with equal uselessness 
their money and their lives, or of the trader who make his own fortune and that 
of his neighbors ? 

And besides, every gentleman is a merchant, who sells his corn, his wine, and 
the wool from his flocks. In vain did Scipio Africanus boast of having bought 
nothing, and sold nothing ; he had undertaken a difficult problem, to remain at 
the same time, inaccessible to poverty and fortune. 

Such was the controversy with the gentlemen of the last century ; they had 
a great wish to become citizens, but dared not frankly own their wish. They 
saw that the activity of those who were not noble encroached upon them on ev- 
ery side ; they saw that idleness was their ruin and their misery ; but yet, how 
could they escape from it, how contradict the opinions of past times, how ac- 
knowledge that they had so long been the dupes of a false privilege ? These 
uncertainties were cruel, they lasted a long time, too long, for at last the day of 
awaking proved a terrible one ; they were surprised in their profound idleness, 
as they were reading Crebillon's last romance, wearing their last uniform, driving 
in their gilded carriages their last mistresses, trying to appease their last credit- 
ors ; the revolution took them, and precipitated them into the abyss with a piti- 
less hand ; it broke the Venetian glasses, tore the Gobelin tapestries, threw down 
the statues of Coustou, effaced from the brilliant walls the works of Vanloo and 
of Cochin. With one blow it destroyed everything, first the throne, and then 
the dutchies, the peerdoms, the marquisates, the earldoms, the baronies. Such 
a lady, who used to have her jewels reset every year, found herself obliged, in 
the middle of winter, to wash the linen of her former servant, now become 
her mistress; the coxcomb who could hardly carry his sword, became a porter 
at the door of the hotel once his own : revenge for the past was complete and 
terrible. It was against such misfortunes as these, that our dreamer Mercier 
wished to guard. He had foreseen all these miseries, he had studied all the fol- 
lies of the economists, and this was why he carried reform everywhere ; into 
the courts, and the interiors of houses ; he surrounded with respect the father 
and the mother of the family, he took from the rooms all the fragile toys, the 
porcelain, the varnish, the gilding ; he required that the conversation should be 
grave and useful, that the youths should resemble men and not children ; that 
the females should be demure, reserved, modest, and busy. He prohibited cards, 
the harpsichord, and the violin ; but he tolerated the flute, and sweet, human 



VARIOUS IMPROVEMENTS — M. eANNAL. 49 

voices. In the city of the year two thousand four hundred and forty, people 
went to bed early, that they might rise early ; it was as much a point of honor 
to be in good health, as to be an honest man. A beautiful dream, as yet unful- 
filled, while it appears the easiest of all to bring about ; but to make up for this, 
Mercier imagined improvements which have been accomplished ; the telegraph, 
the science of languages, the cultivating of waste lands, the equality of men. 
He required also that the state should contract no more debts ; that the right of 
mortmain should be suppressed in all the demesnes of France ; that inoculation 
should be established ; here the reality has surpassed the dream, vaccination has 
been introduced. Farther still, he arranged, according to his own fancy, the 
Ottoman empire, and the empire of Germany. He gave to France, Egypt and 
Greece ; to England, Portugal ; and to Russia, Constantinople. He imagined 
that the French wines became the beverage of all the nations of Europe, but 
then they were the pure, unadulterated juice of the grape. In this way he pro- 
ceeds in his dreams ; he will have no more pensions from the state, each must 
gain his own livelihood, and be prudent on his own account. He goes so far as 
to predict to France, the future possession of Africa; and, finally, he maintains, 
that, one day, which in fact was not very distant, you would be able to walk un- 
der the waters of the sea ; in a word, he is a delightful and ingenious dreamer. 
I own, for my part, that I have read very few books, which interested me as much 
as this history of the year two thousand four hundred and forty. 

The author of this strange dream, so strangely accomplished, dreamed again 
■ — and this time the thing appeared impossible — that, when he was dead, his 
corpse would not be thrown to the worms. He said the day would come, when 
the bodies of those we have loved, preserving their natural form, would be saved 
from the last outrages of the tomb, and above all from the insults of the em- 
balmer. " No, no ;" said he, " the surgeon will no longer be seen plunging his 
knife into the mortal remains of so many great men, who have saved, enlighten- 
ed, and ennobled the French nation ! Better than that, France will be able to 
contemplate them after death, such as ,they were during life. Here — the old 
father will say to his son — here is the great captain who gained that fierce bat- 
tle, I was describing to you yesterday ! Here is the poet who wrote the beauti- 
ful verses you repeated to me the other day! So that, thanks to this preserva- 
tion of the body, we shall really have a more complete and more ornamented 
Pantheon than the Roman Pantheon!" 

Well ! even this dream of Mercier's is accomplished a hundred fold. Among 
the inhabitants of Paris, perhaps there is not one, ill or well, who suddenly, and 
without understanding its meaning, has not received among his visiting cards, a 
small piece of badly-printed pasteboard, on which is read this simple name, Gan~ 
nal. This funeral-card appears to you, among the pieces of white vellum 
which are loaded with names that you love. Gannal ! You rest your head up- 
on your two hands, and say to yourself, Gannal who ? Gannal what ? Bah ! 
say you, the porter has made a mistake, it is a card for my neighbor. No, no ; 
the porter of your house is not mistaken, it is a card for yourself, it is a warning 
of death, and that concerns yourself as much as your neighbor ; death threat- 
ens us all. Formerly the Egyptians paraded the corpses of their fathers amid 
their banquets, in order to excite themselves to joy and pleasures. The Paris- 
ians are no less philosophers than the great lords of Egypt ; they preserve with 
care — and as if they feared to be unable to find it again, when it was needed — 
the card of this Gannal. 

For he is the friend predicted so long beforehand by Mercier, he knows im- 
mediately those who claim oak coffins, sepulchral stones, and graves to them- 
selves. He has found an infallible means, of giving to all the deceased who 
apply to him, the immortality of death, and that he maybe remembered in prop- 
er time and place, he sends you occasionally his funeral note, Gannal ! Gannal ! 
Gannal ! How far this man has a right, to throw this thought of death amid 
the delights and pleasures of a whole city, can not be explained even by the lib- 
erty of the press ; but still he makes of each day of the Parisian life, a sort of 
Ash Wednesday, and no one escapes this unexpected peroration of all the joys 
of this world. The man is pitiless ; incognito, and without crying beware ! he 

4 



50 EMBALMING — PALACE OF THE qUAI d'ORSAT. 

throws his ominous threat at the richest and most powerful, at the youngest and 
most beautiful ; he does not wish to die himself, until he has, in his own way, 
embalmed the whole present generation. He is not malicious, and yet he 
prowls about your life, as the hyena prowls about the cemetery. When he sees 
you, he says to himself, " What a beautiful corpse !" The other day his friend 
died ; instead of stopping to weep for him, he began to embalm him with mar- 
vellous care ; and when he saw him quietly laid in the coffin, a smile upon his 
lips, and the carnation on his cheek, he leaped for joy, as if he had found his 
friend again. The truth is, he has so much faith in his art, that with him, to 
live, is to have in one's veins, a good dose of essence of cinnamon, and there- 
fore he did not spare it to his friend. 

This man, who is a great chymist, has, in fact, found an excellent method of 
giving to the human body an immense durability ; and as in this age everything 
must be done in a hurry, and for very little money, the first difficulty of this 
problem was, to work quickly and cheaply. Now it is impossible to use more 
despatch, or at less cost ; Gannal opens the carotid artery, and through this ar- 
tery injects the whole body of different essences. Thus the mummy is made, an 
eternal, unattackable mummy, and which so resembles a living body, that it might 
be mistaken for one. Only, even in presence of the mummy, and in the depth 
of the tomb, you will find the inequality of conditions. Gannal has essences 
for all fortunes and for all corpses. The essence of cinnamon is the dearest : 
your body will then be worth nearly a hundred crowns. The essence of turpen- 
tine is the most common : three or four louis will then conclude the thing. 

What a misfortune for this poor Mercier, that he could take no part in all 
these changes which have surpassed his hopes ! He died without having heard 
of the economical cooking- stove, the camp-chair, steamboats, or railroads; he 
died without having pressed with a triumphant foot the bitumen of Seyssel or 
of Polonceau, and the wood pavement ; he died without having his last days en- 
lightened by the brilliant gas, or the bougie de VEtoile, without having been 
able to read the Memoires de la Contemporaine, or the Mcmoires de Vidocq — 
without having been present at a representation of the Tour de Nesle or the Sal- 
iimhanques ; he died — unhappy man ! before M. Gannal could embalm him 
with spirits of turpentine ; when, as yet, M. Daguerre was far from discovering 
the daguerreotype ; when the Ruolz process was unknown ; when they were 
still seeking in this vast kingdom of France the great art of making coffee from 
chicory, sugar from beet-root, paper from the beech-tree, and tea from the 
leaves of roses ; he died — O sorrow ! even before the first stone was laid of the 
palace on the quai d' Orsay. 

At length, after the Parisians had so long forgotten it — as they forget all the 
monuments which they see commenced — the palace of the quai d'Orsay, re- 
leased from the ignoble palisading which has surrounded it for thirty years, dis- 
plays to the astonished beholders its white walls, and its windows filled with 
glass. Of this monument, which has so often changed its destination, M. Thiers, 
who never questions anything — and this is precisely why he is M. Thiers — said 
to himself one day, when he was minister of the interior, that he would arrange 
this palace for his own use ; and in fact he had already fitted up the apartments 
of the minister in the way which appeared to him most suitable for such a func- 
tionary : paintings, statues, bas-reliefs, gilded ceilings — nothing was wanted. 
Once installed in this magnificence, the young minister would soon have proved 
that the government of such a country as France would admirably suit the 
richest house in Paris. But after all, in doing this, M. Thiers had thought 
more of future ministers than of himself. But the time for long administrations 
is passed for France, as is also passed the time for ministers sufficiently disinter- 
ested to lay the first stone of a mansion destined for the successors of their suc- 
cessors. On the contrary, all these transitory, passing agents of a revolution, so 
long as they feel their precarious position, will easily content themselves with 
the large furnished houses in the Rue de Grenelle, where they tread the old, 
well-worn carpets of the emperor's ministers ; and will not even take the trouble 
lo malie any alterations in them. It sometimes happens, that for the sake of 
not being crushed beneath their ruins, they have these crumbling houses re- 



HOTEL OF A MINISTER — ENJOYMENTS OF THE POOR. 51 

paired ; but if they do add saloons or staircases, they carefully preserve the old 
furniture ; there are the same arm-chairs formerly gilded, the same paintings 
representing the Greeks and Romans of the time of M. David. They sleep in 
the same beds and the same sheets — sad witnesses of many a sleepless hour. 
Bad furniture, ill-closed windows, smoky chimneys, clocks which gain time — 
too faithful emblems of ambition — impropriated servants, in these common ante- 
chambers, who smile with pity as they count upon their fingers the number of 
their masters, and think that the new minister is a hundred times less certain of 
his post than the usher who is at his command. What shall I tell you 1 cellars 
badly supplied with wine bought the day before, saloons without intimacy, a 
study filled with chagrin and perplexing cares, a lobby inundated with newspa- 
pers, and consequently filled with insults ; an old worm-eaten carriage ; broken- 
backed, broken-winded horses, who know by heart the way to the Tuileries ; a 
dirty, ill-clad coachman ; nothing of home, nothing of family enjoyment, nothing 
which resembles every-day comfort : this is what is called the hotel of a minis- 
ter ! Let us continue our route, and take pity on the sad inhabitants of these 
paltry lodgings, through which have passed so many men of rare talent and pru- 
dence ; poor creatures, envied, insulted, calumniated in these ruined houses 
which are open to every affront, and to all the winds of the south and -the 
north ! 

But why do we speak of the winds of the north ? The month of June is 
here in all its brilliancy. At the present moment, no one remembers what win- 
ter is. The poor man, happy to live, warms himself in the sun ; he assembles 
around him all the ineffable joys of the poor, — a beautiful sky, trees, rich foli- 
age, galloping horses, passing liveries, songs sung to the music of the Barbary 
organ, songs the chorus of which celebrates glory or love, — the emperor or 
■ Lisette ; little popular poems written expressly for the poor, in which the garret 
is praised, where one is so comfortable at twenty years old. The rich man, on 
the other hand, is not less happy than the poor creature who watches him pas- 
sing, with curiosity, but without envy. The rich joyfully quits this city to 
which he will so gladly return ; he bids farewell to the landscapes copied by 
painters, that he may enjoy the real landscape of the good Creator, the eternal 
landscape which returns each year with the spring roses, always younger and 
more smiling. For the sweet appearance of the hill covered with palace and 
shadow, — the vast forest filled with shade and mystery, — for the enjoyment 
of the morning which commences with cock-crowing, — for the mid-day fete 
which brings to the country all the brilliancy of the sun, — for the peaceful and 
smiling meditations of the evening, when you may hear echoing from afar, 
mingling with the silvery tinklings of the angelus, the song of the nightingale, 
the lowing of the herds, the thousand heavenly sounds of the plain and the 
mountain, nothing, — no nothing, is equal to the Parisian country ! And do not 
fail to notice, that the country is at the very gates of the city, that it is open 
and accessible to all, to the poorest and the richest ; — both are equally the mas- 
ters of the verdant plains. For the young Parisian girl, equality commences 
before the thick turf, before the sweet-brier laden with roses, before the nistic 
blue bell, which poises its pretty head among the wheat. It is especially on 
Sundays and holydays, that the Parisian yields himself to his love, — what do 1 
say ? — to his passion for the country. He has worked all the week, but then 
with what joy does he greet the Sunday°sun !* All are sure to rise early; the 
young man makes himself as handsome as possible, the girl assumes her pretti- 
est look ; the father and mother are a little less eager to start, and yet they has- 
ten ; this day recalls to them their youth. They breakfast in all haste, the la- 
dies go to hear mass at their parish church, and listen to it with the greatest 

* Some of our readers who have never visited France, may fancy that this must be a mistake ; 
but the account given by our author is literally true. The day, which was designed for one of holy 
rest, is devoted by the French to amusement and gayety ; and those conscientious foreigners 
whose observance of Sunday at home is founded upon principle,— and who therefore believe that 
what is morally wrong in one country is equally so in another,— are deprived of the pleasure of see- 
ing some few of those objects which excite the greatest interest, such as the paintings in the 
Palais Royal, the playing of the waters at Versailles, &c. ; for with very rare exceptions, these are 
exhibited only on Sunday. — B. T. 



52 COUNTRY EXCURSIONS — THE DINNER. 

fervor. Yes, — but no sooner have they quitted the church, than they meet 
again, and together they ascend, by chance, — you understand, that chance which 
makes pleased hearts and happy marriages — a large vehicle called a tapissiere. 
This vehicle is a whole world ; the father, the mother, the children, the young 
people, the old dog and the puppy, find room upon these seats hung by leather 
straps ; the whole is drawn by a trusty horse, well-fed and well-beaten, who, by 
can-ying all these people, rests from the hard work of the previous week. They 
set out at a hand-trot to arrive walking. What delight! what enjoyment! 
They salute each other, express their good wishes, and recount the stories from 
the old newspapers, a little slander sprinkling the joyous conversation. To each 
party is sure to be invited a clever man, proverbial for his wit, one of those good 
fellows who are always hungry, always ready to laugh at everything, and to 
amuse the amphytrion with whom they dine. People listen to him, more than 
they love him. They invite him, because usually he invites himself. Forward 
then ! — to what place is the happy caravan going? They know nothing about 
it, they are on the way, and will see by-and-by. Thus they go, sometimes to 
the Bois de Boulogne, rather vexed by the fortifications which have cut down so 
many old oaks ; sometimes to the Bois de Vincennes, — overlooked by the threat- 
ening dungeon; Vincennes, the state-prison, which was even more dreadful than 
the Bastille! The oak, under which sat Saint Louis, to administer justice to 
all, that timeworn and respected oak, does not yet throw a shade sufficiently thick, 
to cover all the lamentations and miseries which have been shut up within these 
walls. There, was confined the unvanquished Mirabeau, with his delirious 
phrensy, eloquence, passion, youth, violent love — and what vengeance did he after- 
ward take, for this abominable captivity ! Stoop, and at the bottom of the fosse 
you can still see the place where the last Conde, the Duke d'Enghien was mur- 
dered in the night, by gunshots. — No, the royal oak of Vincennes has not pow- 
er to blot out this foul stain ! Since that day, the Parisian goes less frequently 
to the Bois de Vincennes. Tell him of the valley of Montmorency, green and 
tufted, — beautiful shadows — resounding dales, — the house inhabited by the au- 
thor of Hdoise, — the white horse painted by Gerard, the richest sign which ever 
swung at the door of an inn ; — but at the time for lilacs and fresh verdure ! for 
nothing in the world will the Parisian consent to go anywhere, except to the 
Bois de Romainville. Romainville is the watchword of Parisian joy; it is the 
country of garlands and rose-colored scarfs, of impenetrable thickets and gay 
dances ; at Romainville, the Parisian is at home ; — there he reigns, — there 
he breathes, — these are his lands — mea regna videns ! You should see with 
what a joyous step they tread the brilliant moss. They look, they contemplate, 
they admire ! They can hardly distinguish the poplar from the oak, barley from 
wheat, an apple-tree from a pear-tree ; but it is just on account of this happy 
ignorance of all which forms the country, that the Parisian so much enjoys it- 
Then, at a certain hour, when there is a little shade around the tree, suddenly 
a whole banquet is drawn from the immense carriage. O happiness ! all that 
culinary art can prepare, in a citizen's household, is found in this vehicle of 
abundance ; pies, cold fowls, hams, salad, biscuits, a nice light wine of Macon's, 
the pelure d'oignon, cherries, nosegays for the ladies, and even hay and oats for 
the horse. No thing and no person is forgotten. Oflf with scarfs ! let us hang 
on the branches of the hospitable ash-tree our new hats ! Are you hungry ? 
are you thirsty ? Well, spread out the dainties ! The table is ready found, — at 
the foot of the tree ; — this verdant carpet will serve us for a cloth ; — the singing 
birds will provide the music of the repast ; they will be paid by the crumbs ! 
In a moment everything is ready ; they take their places, the same places as in 
the carriage, and, strange to say ! the guests are as eager as the travellers. In 
less than an hour or two of devouring appetite, two hours of mirth and wild de- 
light, all this food has disappeared, all these bottles are empty, nothing remains 
but the joy of the repast. Then the gayety commences anew, the entrain is the 
same, but more lively ; the bon-mots of the professed joker are no longer need- 
ed, each makes his own bon-mots. And if by chance, or by good luck, a fine 
storm arises, the fete is only the more complete for it ! " Look out for the 
scarfs and the hats !" The hats are concealed at the bottom of the carriage, 



SAINT GERMAIN — THE COUNTRY BALL. 53 

the scarfs are put into some prudent hiding-place, and now our young girls re- 
turn with bare heads, very wet and very happy. They have breathed air, 
health, and hope, for a week's work. Thus for real enjoyment, the environs of 
Paris have nothing to envy in Paris itself. 

If you knew all the delight of these happy spots ! how the white houses 
sparkle and shine with new brilliancy, in the month of June, beneath the 
flowering chestnut-trees ! How much art, how much taste, how much mind 
is shown, in the arrangement of the little chateaux, which you would think 
painted expressly, by some Flemish landscape painter ! How much intelli- 
gence is employed in laying out these parks of an acre, in which nothing is 
wanted, neither fountains, nor statues, nor turf, nor the rarest flowers, nor the 
orange-trees which open to the sun. Paris in summer is a fete by daylight. 
The most delightful gardens filled with foliage, shelter the city with their 
benevolent shadow. The trees on the boulevard give to this long, living 
street, almost a country appearance. The Champs Elysees resembles an in- 
habited wood ; the water is clear, the river sings as it glides to a distance ; 
the horse is more lively ; the child more joyous ; the Parisian lady appears 
to you younger and better dressed than in the winter. You understand that 
the crowd of beauties inhabit these fairy heights, for the Parisian does not like 
to go far from his beloved city. At all hours, the railroad, that new servant 
of every amiable desire, carries here and there whole cargoes of poets, dream- 
ers, lovers, happy idlers, and transplants them, sometimes into the midst of old 
Versailles, sometimes into the sweet villages which border the Seine as far as 
Fontainebleau ; most frequently, for it is a favorite resort, the delight of all 
travellers — it is the forest of Saint Germain. Saint Germain ! the whole his- 
tory of that past which no longer exists. The vast forest stocked with game, 
still remembers Henry IV. The old chateau, motionless and sad, filled with 
malefactors, oh, vanity of human splendors ! was once the dwelling of the ele- 
gancies and chaste afifections of Louis XIII. Almost before you arrive, the 
inviting shade salutes you ; the immense terrace receives you, and from these 
salutary heights, you still see the Paris of business and ambition which strug- 
gles at your feet. These are the moments for enthusiasm and poetry ! On 
all sides arrives, with its sound of pleasure, the obedient steam ; upon the bank 
of the stream, you see pass, as quick as lightening, the new-comers from Nor- 
mandy, from England, from the Atlantic ocean, that most pacific ocean in the 
world ; while in the midst of the river, the steamboat — that surpassing wonder, 
before which the Parisians have bowed for the last ten years, as before a mira- 
cle — slowly, and with a disheartened course, ploughs the waters, which obey 
with regret ; indeed this now exceeded wonder of speed and space, is almost re- 
garded with pity and contempt. In these silent and delightful contemplations, 
night appears ; it softly glides beneath the beautiful sky ; then commence other 
fetes ; the pavilion of Henry IV., on the slope of the hill, is illuminated from 
top to bottom, in honor of the hungry ones of the city ; the royal echo of the 
forest, concealed in its picturesque depths, repeats the sound of the horn, and 
the barking of the pack which the huntsman is exercising. Meantime, in all the 
neighboring villages, preparations are made for the ball ; not the winter ball, 
sparkling with the blaze of diamonds, laden with rubies and pearls, the ball of 
enchanting melodies, bare shoulders, and unequalled magnificence ; but the 
country fete, half lighted up by jealous rays ; the turf trod by a heavier step 
than the floor ; the noisy orchestra, which only resembles in its entrain the 
dancing harmonies of Strauss or Musard. No, it is not a similar fete, but there 
is the same enjoyment ; they are not the same dancers, but there is the same 
delight. Look carefully at those pretty girls in white dresses, the dutchesses of 
the neighboring hamlet, the countesses of the surrounding country, the flying 
squadron of the beautiful days in the month of June ; and you will recognise 
even in this village elegance, the Parisian of Paris ; it is herself; in vain does 
she try to conceal it, she is betrayed by a certain grace and gentility, which no 
philosopher can explain. You were speaking of revolutions just now ; well ! 
what prevents your believing that this fete takes place at the distance of a hun- 
dred years ? Ask the happy dancers who is the present king ? They can 



54 THE OLD MINSTREL — CHANTIIiLT — THE ROYAL STABLES. 

scarcely tell you. The sovereign majesty of these young men and lovely girls is 
the present hour ! Ask the old minstrel, who makes his violin swear under the 
bow, if he ever heard of Rossini or Meyerbeer ? He also, the worthy performer 
in the open air, has learned nothing, and forgotten nothing. The round which 
he is now playing, was left him as an inheritance by his father, who received it 
from his grandfather ; it is a true chacone, which M. de Lulli composed for the 
young King Louis XIV., and which Louis XIV. danced so well. Even the 
words of this chacone are preserved ; I have them from a gentleman who is a 
delightful poet, of flowery imagination ; a clever fellow, who would be rather 
awful if he were not naturally full of urbanity and benevolence ; one of those 
great lords, who spend their time in hearing and recalling old vows, old attach- 
ments, old songs. You must take one verse as a specimen : — 

" La jeune Iris aimait Cleandre. 
De tous les bergers du hameau, 
Cleandre eut ete le plus beau, 
Mais il n'etait pas le plus tendre. 
Ohe ! oh la ! 
Voici, voUa 
Comment I'amour vient et s'en va." 



CHAPTER VL 

CHANTILLY. 

On a beautiful day in the month of May, I was in one of the most lovely spots 
on the earth ; so beautiful that the opera of Ciceri has not finer decorations, more 
transpai-ent and more limpid waves, greener and fresher turf — I was on the vast 
pelouse of Chantilly. At the end of that verdant plain, and below the river which 
rolls slowly along between those magnificent jets d'eau of Eossuet and the great 
Conde, which are never silent, day or night — do you see that modest house, 
having almost the appearance of a citizen's dwelling, and concealing itself be- 
neath the budding shadow of the poplars and the willows ? And on this nearest 
bank, do you see that magnificent palace, the lofty domes, the large open arcades, 
through which an entire army might pass abreast ? The palace presides over 
the whole by its imposing aspect ; at its feet dash the waves of the river, softly 
murmuring its inarticulate complaint ; at its feet springs the down of the early 
grass. The palace crushes by its majesty the humble house, which becomes 
small in its presence, and which conceals to the best of its power its gilded walls, 
its ceilings painted by Watteau, its piers supported by Cupids, all the elegant and 
coquettish luxury of the last century, which it contains. And the smaller the 
house appears, the more superb does the palace become ; the more silent the 
house is, the more does the palace sound and resound with cries of pride. 

Well ! this superb palace, this lofty dome, this imposing mass, which attracts 
aU the sun and all the verdure, all the noises of the plain and all the trees of the 
forest, all the admiration of men and all the coloring of the artist, all the poetry 
of the last century and all the associations of history — is notliing but the stable 
of the small house which you see below, modestly placed at the foot of these 
walls, which you would say were constructed for the abode of giants. Since the 
time of the great Conde, who built it in one of those moments of magnificent 
leisure, which were natural to him, the royal stable of Chantilly has, like all the 
great things of this world, sustained the vicissitudes of fortune. And at the 
present day, if motion is restored to this fresh turf, if noise has re-entered the 
ancient forest, if the castle revives, astonished at these young and joyous accents. 



FETE AT CHANTILLT — THE RACE. 55 

if the horn again awakes the old echo, if the stag is forced to take again the fatal 
start, if the dogs return to the quarry, if this beautiful spot has once more seen 
Parisian youth and Parisian beauty, the pride of elegance and fashion, if all is 
life again beneath these trees — you may thank the stable for it, that masterpiece 
of magnificence and taste, which the great Conde chose to raise, in honor of his 
old and noble companions, the coursers of Rocroi and Fribourg. 

But meantime, since the melancholy, inexplicable, and in all the circumstances 
cruelly unfortunate death of the last Conde, what had become of the stables of 
his great predecessor ? They were silent, they were deserted, they regretted 
their ancient glory, when the magnificent chateau, now demolished, served as an 
asylum for so many kings and princes ; when, in the very stable itself, the kings 
of the north used to dine in great state among the horses of the prince ; when the 
immense folding doors opened daily, to allow the egress of this tempest on horse- 
back, which repaired to the plain, to the noise of tmmpets, in pursuit of the stag. 
Happily there are some ruins which seem to last for ever. If the chateau de 
Conde has been demolished and sold piecemeal, the stables have remained unin- 
jured, to attest the magnificence of these Bourbons, who by victory alone have been 
brought near to the throne of France. But what shall be done, henceforth, with 
these devastated stables ? How can you restore to them the noise and move- 
ment which they have lost ? There is no longer a prince in France who can, or 
who dares fill, for his own use merely, the stables of Chantilly ; and yet so skilful 
is the revolution of July, that it has found the means of filling them ! 

It has been imagined, then — and the idea is ingenious — to summon, not the 
hunt, but the race, to Chantilly. The stables have been opened, not only to 
the horses of the young princes, but to all the fine coursers of those who are 
rich enough to love beautiful horses, to love them with that generous passion 
which knows neither fatigue nor sacrifice. They now therefore arrive from all 
paiis at the first signal ; they arrive, urged on by glory, and so beautiful, and so 
young, and so full of life I Let them come, then ; open to them the folding- 
doors of the stables of Chantilly, prepare them for the race ; pay them every 
honor ! 

And, in fact, on the day of which I speak, Chantilly had an unusual appear- 
ance of fete. All rich Paris, the Paris of the idle and the young, who know how 
to make even their leisure and their follies useful, had repaired to the vast pe- 
louse. The forest was as animated as at its most brilliant fetes of Saint Hubert ; 
the stables had reassumed all their importance, and summoned all their pride. 
It was the day of great prizes and great acclamations, an hour of complete tri- 
umph for the horses, for the young men, and for the ladies — three aristocracies 
which agree admirably well. The arena was the turf of Chantilly — a turf 
covered with Olympic glory, saving the dust. The tents had been erected since 
the morning ; the road was traced, the goal was marked out beforehand. In the 
stables, in their magnificent stalls, the eager coursers, impatient for glory, pawed 
the earth with their feet, and displayed the flashing eye, the open nostril, the 
mane flowing to the wind. 

Soon the trumpets begin ; it is time to arrive, for the arena will open to the 
very moment. The hurry is great, the eagerness unanimous, the confusion 
complete. The brilliant calash arrives post, laden with feathers, flowers, and 
sweet smiles. The peasant comes at a hand trot on his little horse, carrying his 
young daughter behind him, as curious and animated as if she were going to a 
ball. Long wicker vehicles come walking, bearing whole families, rich farmers, 
who, from the height of their cariole, see without envy these beautiful ladies in 
th.eir silken calash. Here all vehicles rank alike, here all horses are equal, the 
dragoon's horse and the laborer's ; but at last every one is in his place : we now 
only wait the heroes of the entertainment, the princes of the day. Sound, ye 
trumpets ! and you, herald, open the field ! 

What a drama ! what efforts ! what assembled beauties of different kinds ! 
what vigor ! How boldly the nimble coursers throw themselves into the field ! 
what power, what energy ! You see them — now you see them no longer ! 
They leap forward — you think it is the race ? No, it is mere play ; they run a 
league to talie breath ! Thus they try the field, they recognise the earth, they. 



56 THE GOLD CUP — AN UKEXPECTED SALL. 

look at the men, they look at each other and admire each other, and already 
think that the pahxi will be difficult to gain. 

At the given signal, they suddenly stai-t. At first you would think that they 
were walking, next that they run, then that they fly. The fascination is at is 
height, each one holds his breath, in order to see them better : so many hopes 
are placed upon these noble heads ! What pleasure ! the course of Chantilly ! 
the attentive crowd ! the ladies, who forgot to observe each other, that they may 
look at a horse ! bets, in which pride has yet more interest than fortune ! This 
is the drama ! this is the theatre ; and for actors you have the most beautiful, 
the most artless, the most charming, the most modest, the most admirable crea- 
tures. 

To tell you, victory by victory, the name of the rivals — to tell you, word for 
word, the details of the race, would be impossible. And besides, how can I de- 
scribe a defeat, which is decided in a quarter of a second ? How can I take 
upon myself to put in the first or second place the eager competitors of the race- 
course ? Let us leave these little particulars to the sporting gentlemen ; and 
as for us, as the French fabulist says, '■'■ Ne forcons point notre talents 

Very soon, another race is announced — the race for the gold cup. The cup 
is passed through the ranks, so that every one can see it. This time it is not a 
large piece of gold or silver without shape and without style ; it is an elegant work, 
artistically formed by one of those ingenious sculptors which France alone pos- 
sesses at the present day — by Antouin Moine, or M. Triquety, or M. Klagman, 
the beloved children of Cellini. The cup, when gained, is carried off in great 
triumph by the owner of the horse ; and the same evening, under the arched 
roof of Chantilly, the winning horse, without being any the prouder for it, eats 
his hay from the golden cup, by the side of his vanquished rivals. 

But there is yet another race, and the most difficult of all. This time it is 
the struggle of man to man and horse to horse, between the owners of these 
fine steeds. On this occasion the interest is increased ; for the struggle, which - 
was between horses, is to be between men. There is now at once a race and a 
danger. There is a field to cross, and a hedge to clear. You must arrive and 
be the first to leap. 

There is a costume adopted expressly for this race, in which elegance and 
simplicity are happily combined. Long boots, buckskin indispensables, a red 
silk shirt, a rich front, elegant cuffs, a little velvet cap on the head, and within 
all this a handsome young man of twenty-five years of age. Thus dressed, he 
mounts his horse, and you at once see that he is its master. Our cavaliers start 
then at the first signal, leaping the hedges as if they would break their own 
necks, and kill their horses. 

Such is this race. It has been brilliant, animated, hardly contested, and 
without accident. All have done their duty, the horses and the men. The 
race being over, they separate. The horses return to that noble stable which 
assisted their triumph ; as for the men, some have retaken the road to Paris, 
others have returned to the joys of their inn. However, one of those gentlemen 
who are sent by Russia, here and there, to the different courts of Europe — as 
if to prove that she has no lessons to receive from any one in grace, elegance, 
or politeness — seeing so many active young men, and so many idle beauties, 
thought he would improvise a fete, to which every one should be welcome who 
was young and beautiful. You were not asked your name when you entered ; 
they only wished to know whether you were elegant and pretty. And here again 
I saw how far the urbanity of this good country of France could extend. At this 
sudden ball there was no restraint, no stateliness ; the first Parisian ladies danced by 
the side of the prettiest women, without name and without husbands, who are 
protected by the somewhat profane shadow of Notre Dame de Lorette ; at the 
same time, the more ease and good breeding the ladies showed, the more re- 
serve and decorum did the others exhibit ; and we did not quit Chantilly till the 
middle of the night. The road, the village, the lawn, the forest, were encum- 
bered with horses, carriages, postillions, half-tipsy coachmen, gay pedestrians, 
merry jockeys ; on the road you found a postmaster, who offered you a bed when 
you asked bam for horses. There was another who gave you a fat kitchen-maid 



TOILET OF PARIS EFFECT OF REVOLUTIONS. 57 

to drive you, for want of a postboy ; there were a thousand jovial sounds, a thou- 
sand drinking-songs, a thousand follies, and all this Ughted by the moon, and ac- 
companied by the last warblings of the nightingale. 

Such are the pleasures of this beautiful season which flies so quickly. Noth- 
ing stops these infatuated men, when once they have launched into their favor- 
ite passion. All that I could do from time to time, was to follow them till I was 
out of breath, knowing that I could rest a little later at the side of the road ; 
for I feel it, do what I will, all this noise, all this excitement is not in my nature ; 
I prefer a more patient study, a calmer contemplation ; to go less quickly and 
see better, would be my delight ; but how is it possible, when one is seized with 
the Parisian fury ? 

Very early — too early — I was returning to the city which I had left the even- 
ing before. The city still slept, as if she wished to recover herself after our fa- 
tigues. The countryman quietly returned, having deposited upon the stones of 
the market, the immense heap of provisions which Paris consumes in a day. 
At this early hour of the morning, the city is a melancholy sight, each house is 
mute, silent, slovenly ; the streets, so clean in the daytime, are obstructed with 
filth — a lamentable population — oh what misery ! wretched beings in rags, broom 
in hand, perambulate this city of fetes; abominable tumbrels pass at a distance, 
with a noise like an engine of war ; in the half-open sewers, glide poor creatures, 
who live, or rather who die a hngering death, in this infectious darkness. Ah ! 
the toilet of this sumptuous city is lamentable. Its price is the toil of the 
miserable, the life of men, the most horrible of labors. 

Since I was in a mood for contemplating miseries, I obeyed my destiny. 1 
went straight before me, by the light of this gloomy Parisian aurora. I trod 
with a sad step, the hopeless ruins of the archbishop's palace, one of the oldest 
monuments in the city. No one can tell, what has become of these beautiful 
ruins of a chef d'oeuvre, which the people destroyed in one day of fury ; they have 
disappeared like the straw which the wind carries away. Revolutions are more 
destructive than time ; time effaces, revolutions overthrow ; time changes, revo- 
lutions destroy ; time leaves its print and its respect wherever it passes, revolu- 
tions leave behind them only the stain of blood, and the traces of flames. Revo- 
lutions make a clear space ; never does anything they have torn tip, blossom 
again ; time, on the contrary, that beneficent divinity, conceals all its ravages be- 
neath the harvest and the flowers. Time is old age, it is still life ; a revolution 
is death. 

And remember the people of France are almost as proud of their crimes, as 
of their good actions. Still more — in a moment of senseless fury, they will ask 
nothing better than to overthrow the monument, which they raised the day be- 
fore to their own glory ; but make them rebuild the memorial, which a hundred 
years since, they crushed with their stupid feet, they will tell you that you insult 
them. After the ruins which they have made, what the French people respect 
most, is, the monuments which they have not yet finished, the things which 
have not yet lived. You will never see them, on days of tumult, attacking edi- 
fices which are but just begun. No, but to make amends for this, the older the 
edifice, the more furiously will it be attacked. I imagine that it is because it 
has never been finished, that the Louvre has never been mutilated, in all the in- 
surrections which have invaded it at so many different times. The man laden 
with years is crushed, the child who has yet to grow, is spared. A great and 
fatal ruin this Louvre, which ought to be the glory of this vast city ; the Lou- 
vre, at which have labored so many great kings and so many excellent artists ; 
the Louvre, which is the centre of Paris and of the world, the spot of shelter 
and of authority for the fine arts, the national wonder — is, at this moment, more 
dilapidated than the last hotel of the under-prefect in a city of fifteen hundred 
souls. In this palace, which you would take at a distance, for the palace of the 
princess who slept a hundred years, indigence and luxury wage frightful battles 
night and day. The most beautiful columns, the heads of which are crowned 
with the ancient acanthus and ivy, have their bases covered with ignoble plas- 
ter; the most magnificent stones are set in worm-eaten wood. All around this 
royal ruin, even opposite the museum, theft and every kind of vice shelter 



58 THE UNFINISHED LOUVRE — THE POSTMAN. 

themselves beneath its imposing shadow. An incredible, dreadful mixture of 
the most opposite elements, the base and the sublime ; Perrault the architect, 
and the wine-seller at the corner, Catherine de Medicis and Margot, the king 
and the rag-picker, Jean Goujon and Jean Jean shamefully placed together 
against these walls. And when we remember, that even the Emperor Napoleon 
who had so many armies at his service, and so many millions in the cellars of the 
Tuileries, was not able to cleanse these Augean stables, we begin to think that 
it must be impossible. But why is it impossible ? The site is yours, the idea 
is drawn out, the monument is two thirds finished, you have all the French art- 
ists at command. He who shall complete this immense chef d'oeuvre will ac- 
quire a glory, not less great than that of him who commenced it. For what are 
you waiting then? But, say they, when finished, how will you fill so vast a 
space ? As if they had not the books of the Jloyal Library to lodge, the exhi- 
bitions of industry, the modern productions of the fine arts, all kinds of know- 
ledge, all descriptions of masterpieces to shelter! But we travellers must not be 
so exacting. We will not ask so much for the present hour; we will leave to 
future centuries, the care of completing these royal dwellings. We are not am- 
bitious, we would give all the share of joy and pleasure which would accrue to 
us, from the finishing of the Louvre, for four squares of turf and a fountain, in 
this court where the most wretched herbs heave up the most hideous pavement. 



CHAPTER Vn. 

THE POSTMAN. 



I w^AS just entering the door, when I heard the postman spelling out my name 
with the most imperturbable coolness. These Frenchmen have the habit of 
giving all names a French termination. If you bore a Teutonic appellation of 
the time of Frederick Barberousse, or an Anglo-Saxon nomenclature of the 
time of William the Conqueror, the postman would make of you a regular in- 
habitant of the Chaussee d'Antin, or if you prefer it, of the Faubourg Saint 
Honore. For the rest, this humble and very sprightly officer of the government 
is well worth the trouble — let us make acquaintance with him. 

The postman is naturally, a kind, active, simple man, whose life is regulated 
for him day by day, and hour by hour ; he is only at liberty before six in the 
morning, and after six in the evening ; the rest of his life belongs to the admin- 
istration which covers his hat with oil-skin, which makes his coats, which gives 
him his shoes, which draws him in a handsome carriage with two horses, which 
supplies to him the place of father and mother, which confides to him the most 
important things in the world, the secrets of private persons ; the postman is 
every one's man, he is loved by all, he is expected by all ; he is hope in regi- 
mentals. He comes, he goes, he returns, and goes away again, and upon the 
whole of his route, he finds nothing but smiles. The messenger of death or 
love, of satisfied or disappointed ambition, he is always welcome ; for his pres- 
ence, and that which he brings, whether joy or grief, puts a period to the most 
cruel of all evils, suspense. The postman is the watchful and always extended 
bond which unites the past to the present, and the present to the future ; he is 
the mysterious voice which speaks low to every ear, and makes itself heard in 
every heart. Like fortune, he is blind, and like her, he distributes to each 
comer, the share of happiness or of pain which belongs to each; he is expected, 
he is called ; all doors are open to him, all hands are held out to him ; emotion 
precedes, and emotion follows him; when he appears on the threshold of a 
house, an indefinable restless expectation seems to take possession of it ; the 
energetic accent of the postman's knock stops every domestic occupation, each 



AN INVITATION — THE HIGH-ROAD. 59 

one listening to hear whose name will be pronounced, by this ambassador of the 
present hour. Then he departs, to return after an interval of two hours, for he 
is the man of all seasons — if in the morning, he is the messenger of the provin- 
ces, of all Europe, a sort of dreadful and dreaded plenipotentiary — he is only, 
for the rest of the day, the deputy of the little passions, the little ambitions, and 
the thousand coquetries of Paris. The morning-postman, laden with the 
commissions of Europe and the correspondence of the whole world, will per- 
haps decide life or war, ruin or fortune ; the mid-day postman has only to carry 
the thousand little nothings of common life ; invitations to dinners or to balls, 
lovers' appointments, rose-colored petitions, infamous, or, perhaps delightful 
anonymous notes, little perfumed letters, with motto seals, which allow all their 
contents to be seen through the transparent envelope. Well! the morning 
messenger, who is also the evening one, is as simple, as kind, and as sweet, in 
the evening as the morning. Nothing seems heavy to him ; the banker's letter, 
full of money, is not more weighty to him than the young girl's, full of love. 
He understands everything, and says nothing. He knows all mysteries, without 
ever revealing any. He reads by instinct all the letters, without ever opening 
one. He is the man who knows all the intrigues, all the ambitions, all the pas- 
sions of life ; he could tell — but he never will — when these passions commence, 
and when they finish ; he does not come to one door without knowing the rea- 
son ; he does not return thence, without being able to say what he brings. He 
is the man of question and the man of answer. He is at once blame and praise, 
consolation and despair. Through all these papers which are so carefully seal- 
ed, he hears the complaints which they breathe ; from his leather case so close- 
ly shut, rises, for him alone, an immense concert of noises of a thousand kinds, 
which accompany him in his course ; an admirable concert of all joys and all 
sorrows. 

But do you know what invitation this letter contained — for me, who had but 
just returned from the Chantilly races ? I was asked to be present — immediate- 
ly, to start at eleven o'clock and arrive three hours later — at the steeple chase 
of the Croix de Berny. The letter was written in a very pressing and thorough- 
ly French style. I was praised if I went, I was ridiculed if I did not go. I 
was promised the society of the beautiful ladies whom I left last night, in the 
midst of the waltz and the ball. Shall I suffer America, in my person, to be 
conquered by these fragile and lovely creatures, who are as flexible, and yet as 
hard, as steel ? How can I refuse ? Thus there is no rest, no delay, I must 

start again We will go then ! and now behold us immediately on the 

road ; you would have thought, had you seen us galloping by, that we were 
about to save the monarchy. . . . We were simply going, after having seen 
horses dispute the prize at the Chantilly races, to witness a struggle between 
men — a struggle depending partly upon chance, and partly upon dexterity. And 
the more speed was necessary, because this is a fancy recently imported into 
Paris; and the French are as proud of having acquired this new emotion, as if 
they had won a battle. You would have said that all Paris had made an ap- 
pointment upon this high-road, where generally, almost the only passengers are 
couriers, ambassadors, the mails, and the large herds of oxen which repair week- 
ly to the market at Sceaux. But now the road had a most unusual appearance. 
The finest and most celebrated horses the city can produce, the most elegant 
equestrians, and the youngest and loveliest Parisian girls who ever turned their 
attention to English steeds, the old amateurs who can no longer ride, the very 
young men who have not yet begun to ride, the noble dutchesses of the Chaus- 
see d'Antin, and the meiTy marchionesses of the rue du Helder, the English, 
who are the leaders of France in this kind of pleasures, the jockey club which 
gives the signal for these fetes, the old, elegant, broken-winded horses from the 
riding-houses, jogging along among the fine coursers of the Fabourg Saint 
Honore — all were at this rendezvous so full of interest and excitement ; without 
reckoning the splendid calashes, the mysterious coupes, the imprudent tilbu- 
ries, the stately berlins, the large chars-d-banc, the gentlemen-ushers, the grooms, 
the couriers, the postillions with their long reins, the four horses, galloping at 
their greatest speed, the heavy diligences and the heavy carts, and the harnaless 



60 THE STEEPLE CHASE — ENTHUSIASM OP THE FRENCH. 

cuckoos, and the astonished hackney-coaches, which stopped at the sides of the 
road to see everything ; and the beautiful ladies, whom we have not counted, 
half satin, half velvet ; half winter, half spring ; and all the noise, and the mo- 
tion, and the clamor. Forward, then, since we must, and let us march as quick- 
ly as possible. 

Thus we arrive breathless upon the spot, between two ditches, between two 
flowing streams, between two meadows, which are still wet, on the course of the 
Boeuf Couronne, near the Croix de Berny. Each one takes the best position 
he can find ; upon the road, at the side of the stream, in the meadow, or in the 
garden of that pretty little house at the right — a fruitful garden on such a day, 
for it brings to its master, as much as an estate of two hundred acres in Nor- 
mandy. You would not know how to believe the drama, which passes at this 
hour upon the high road. The general excitement is intense, the betting is at 
its height, those hazardous bets, eight to one ! All the horses which are entered, 
are made the subject of conversation ; their ages, their names, their exploits, 
their defeats, their paces, their genealogy — all is told just as they would discuss 
a new-comer into the diplomatic arena. In this agitated crowd, more than one 
lady's heart secretly palpitates, so heavy is the stake now, a stake in which the 
heart takes so deep an interest ! The moment is well chosen for this headlong 
race, the sun is brilliant and yet moderate, the air is clear and transparent ; you 
will certainly be able to see the cavaliers from a distance. This is the reason 
why so many await their arrival, why the anxiety is so general. 

After an hour of this delightful expectation, do you not at last see in the 
distance, through the weeping willows, through the white branches of the pop- 
lars in the meadow, do you not see coming, a light red or blue mist? .... 

Yes, here they are, it is they, it is the racers of the day, all gentlemen riders, 
they have already, in five minutes, shot over a league and a half of slippery and 
difficult ground ; twice they have crossed the gracefully winding Bievre, they 
have leaped, without hesitation, more than twenty barriers; they run, will you 
applaud? .... 

But their task is not finished ; after all the barriers which they have leaped, a 
far more difficult one remains. Did I say a barrier ? it is a terrible ditch ! This 
ditch is at the end of the race, upon the Boeuf Couronne road, and full of wa- 
ter ; the ascent to it is perpendicular, then, when you have reached the top of 
the acclivity, you must leap downward across a formidable ravine, so much the 
more dangerous because it is impossible for the horses to discover it. Thus all 
the interest is centred in this last trial ; upon that is fixed every look, every 
mind ; there is the peril, there is the glory, there is the triumph. Would you 
not say that these eager minds, these curious looks, the kind of alarm that all 
seem to feel, are indications of some great catastrophe which is about to hap- 
pen ? What an enthusiastic people, who throw into the most trifling objects, 
all the energy, all the instincts, all the dramatic vivacity of passion ! 



THE CIRCUS IN THE CHAMPS ELTSEES — THE GREENKOOM. 61 

CHAPTER VIIL 

THE CIRCUS IN THE CHAMPS ELTSEES. 

But if you admire perilous leaps, feats of strength, and all the dangers of 
horsemanship — above all, if you enjoy, on a mild summer's evening, an amuse- 
ment without fatigue, go to the Olympic circus. It is the favorite resort of all 
those men for whom the opera has no more mysteries, of all the fashionable 
ladies, beautiful exiles from the Italian theatre, who employ themselves in see- 
ing horses leap while awaiting the return of Lablache, Rubini, Madame Per- 
siani, and the other nightingales with melodious throats. The Olympic circus 
is the most extensive and the most solid encampment in the Champs Elysees. 
The architect wished simply to erect, not a theatre, but a tent ; and yet on your 
entrance, you are at once struck with its gigantic proportions. Painting, velvet, 
lighted chandeliers, are all around you. Imagine — but where am I to find com- 
parisons? — imagine the amphitheatres of Nismes, imitated upon a small scale, 
in gilt wood and painted card-board, and transported there as a counterfeit 
of that giants' circus, and you will have the Olympic circus of the Champs 
Elysees. 

Nothing has been forgotten, either within or v/ithout, that could adorn this 
fragile structure. On the outside, M. Pradier has placed the most charming 
bas-reliefs ; in front, a beautiful amazon breaks an unruly horse for mere amuse- 
ment. Skilful artists, — for it is one of the royal customs of France, to sum- 
mon painting and sculpture to its aid, on every occasion, — have covered the cu- 
pola and the walls with all kinds of brilliant fancies ; you enter without ascend- 
ing, and suddenly present themselves to you, a great variety of staircases, cor- 
ridors, and passages, which lead to all parts of the edifice, in the centre of which 
an immense chandelier presides by its brilliancy, over some thirty smaller ones. 
It appears to us, that the area is rather small for so imposing an enclosure; but 
what signifies the area ? The real amusement is the vast saloon, filled with men 
and women of all colors, in sparkling confusion, assembled there by the only 
great artist who is sure to fill a saloon, by the only actor who is always wel- 
comed, always adored by the public, always in voice, always in breath, — a low 
price. 

Since it was necessary to see everything, we went into the greenroom of the 
actors. This greenroom is large, airy, well inhabited ; you may enter without 
the slightest notice being taken of your presence ; not a salutation, not a smile, 
or a look will you receive, even from the young leader; these worthy performers 
are wholly absorbed in their appointed parts ; when their turn comes to appear 
upon the stage, they go there naturally, without exclamation, without gesture, 
without even looking at themselves in the glass ; their task accomplished, they 
return to the greenroom, not in the least elated by the applause lavished upon 
them by the crowd. They never paid the most insignificant clapper, to enhance 
their merits to the injury of their rivals. They never insulted or calumniated 
each other, for a part which they thought particularly suited themselves. Nev- 
er did you see, in this model for greenrooms, the coquette displaying her jew- 
els, the tyrant in the act of having his white hair painted black, the arguer tot- 
tering upon his legs; they are all sober, grave, and serious, they are contented 
with their daily food for salary ; they do not have a single dispute with the ward- 
robe-keeper, for a piece of cloth or velvet; they obey the manager as a faithful 
servant would obey his master. The excellent greenroom! there you can 
neither smell musk, nor patchouli, nor eau de Cologne, nor dried rose-leaves ; 
there you can neither see false tufts, nor powder, nor rouge, nor ceruse, nor 
patches, nor false teeth, nor false calves ; there, all is real, old age and youth, 
beauty and ugliness, strength and grace, intelligence and passion. The excel- 
lent greenroom ! And yet people are so obstinate as to call it a stable ! 

What was it we were saying just now, about the steeple chase ? "Was there 
any necessity, then, to go so far, in order to meet all these difficulties and all 



63 OLYMPIC CIRCUS — M. BAUCHER — PARTISAN. 

these dangers ? Will not the Olympic circus satisfy all the equestrian feelings 
of the Parisian ? Do they know any man who mounts a horse better than 
Baucher, Baucher the conqueror of Neptune and of Partisan 7 

Never was there a greater assemblage of difficulties, a more slippery area, 
more frightful paths, more perfidious leaps, even at the ditch of the Bomf 
Couronne, than at the Olympic circus ! If you go there, you will perhaps be 
fortunate enough to see the reins of some young horsewoman break, before your 
eyes, and without the price of seats being raised for it. Not a day passes, in 
which the equilibrium of some of the riders does not fail them ; sometimes it is 
the horse which goes too fast, sometimes they go too fast for the horse; — what 
faithful emblems of the passions ! One girl broke her arm, and when she was 
raised up, smiled upon the petrified crowd ; another sprained her leg, and held 
herself erect upon the other one; the audience thought it was a part of her 
performance. There are some, who, furious at seeing themselves dismounted 
before the assembly, chase their trembling coursers, and then there is the most 
incredible reaction between the rider and the horse ; the horse falls on his knees, 
and asks pardon with his two hands joined ! The lady pardons him, and takes 
pity on him It is a horse ! 

I had the pleasure of seeing M. Baucher ride his beautiful Partisan. This 
M. Baucher is a very clever horseman, who has taught the most unruly steed 
ever brought from England, to execute quadrilles and steps of which even Mad- 
ame Vestris would be very jealous. According to Baucher's system, the horse 
has no longer will, intelligence, 'nor memory. He is nothing but a machine, or 
if you prefer it, a power, obedient to the slightest movements transmitted to him 
by the cavalier, without the least resistance being possible. Thus Partisan 
was mastered, at once. The very first day, thus mounted, the terrible horse be- 
came immediately a quiet, docile animal. All that is asked of him, he does, 
without trouble, and without effort. He goes, he comes, he stops, he rears, he 
leaps, he flies, he walks, he turns upon one leg, then upon the other, he gallops 
with his hind legs, he beats time like M. Habeneck ; — you have no idea of his 
ease, his grace, his elegance, his lightness. Is it a man ? is it a horse ? How is 
it ? No one knows. The cavalier is as calm as the animal he rides. He is in 
the saddle, and with all your attention, you can not tell how, — the one bearing 
the other, — they can execute all these feats of strength, which yet are not 
feats of strength ! In fact, you neither see the hands nor the legs of the cava- 
lier move; you would say, tlaat the horse acts of himself, and because it is his 
good pleasure. AVhen Partisan stops, with his two fore feet fixed upon the 
ground, while he makes plain marks with the hind foot ; or else when he stands 
upon his hind feet, and moves his fore feet in coiTect time, the vulgar are tempt- 
ed to exclaim, " It is a miracle .'" The miracle is, that there is no miracle, it is the 
most simple thing in the world; this beautiful effect is the result of equilibrium, 
and depends upon the weight of the horseman being properly balanced, from 
the front to the back, or from the back to the front. But what precision is ne- 
cessary, — for instance, when the horse ought to move only the two diagonal 
legs ! With what exactness must he burden or relieve, such or such a part of 
the animal ! But then a horse thus mounted is the beau-ideal of the horse ge- 
nus and the cavalier genus. Until the present time, in point of horses rode in 
public, you have seen only actors ; Partisan is a true horse! 

In the finest summer days, when you leave the circus, if you know anything 
of Paris, you will take care not to return immediately to your hotel. Yield 
yourself, on the contrary, to that faithful guide, that devoted cicerone called 
chance. Every one returns to the Champs Elysees, I know not what powerful 
attraction for ever brings you back to it. They are still embellishing it ; all kinds 
of pretty, little, smiling houses, rise in the midst of well-designed little gardens ; 
from all parts you may hear the soft murmur of fountains. Singers in the open 
air boldly attack Rossinian melodies. In the Allee des Veuves, upon the very 
site of the house which belonged to Madame TaUien, that beautiful and benev- 
olent queen of a dying republic, beneath those shadows which Bonaparte, the 
young Corsican, pressed with a timid foot, in the suite of Josephine Beauhar- 
nois, the charming Creole, — the Parisian has established a country ball ; at this 



THE COMET — THK RETURN TO PARIS — ^ATTRACTIONS. 63 

ball there is dancing every evening, and not one of the dancers suspects the 
events which have taken place in these alleys, trod by so many delightful or 
terrible feet. 

Thus you pursue your continued quest after brilliant magnificence, beneath 
the starry canopy of heaven. The AUee des Veuves reconducts you to the 
calm, proud river. You throw an astonished glance upon a light building, of the 
style of the middle ages : it was brought from Fontainebleau, stone by stone, 
and placed there beneath the trees, which are astonished at such exquisite ele- 
gance. A long succession of lighted lamps brings you back to the Place Lou- 
is XV. In the distance appears to you, as you proceed, the dome and the hotel 
of the Invalids, and the Chamber of Deputies, and that long suite of delightful 
houses which border the river, — and the Institute — and again and always, the 
palace of the Tuileries, — motionless, full of shadow, calm, repose, and majesty ! 

Beautiful hours of the starry nights ! Aurora borealis of the Parisian sky! 
One evening I was thus walking and enjoying the silence of night, when I sud- 
denly perceived in the heavens, which were unusually clear, I know not what 
strange appearance, which resembled the brilliancy of an unexpected sun. 
Never was the city more dazzling, never was the sky more serene, never were 
these heights more grand and noble. It was the triumphant comet of 1843, 
which, with its hand ornamented with stars, knocked at the door of the observa- 
tory, saying, '■'■Arago, thou sleepest !" 



CHAPTER IX. 

THE RETURN TO PARIS. 



Among other great pleasures to be found in Paris, in the beautiful season, you 

must place the Exposition at the Louvi-e But how is this ? I perceive, at 

this late hour, that I have not yet told you how it happens that — after having 
taken my final departure, after having said adieu to the winter fetes which were 
scarcely finished — here I am again, more a Parisian than ever, and traversing 
the whole city with a delighted step and an enthusiastic look, as happy and proud 
as a legitimate king who has just reconquered his capital. Nothing is more sim- 
ple ; and be your acquaintance with the enchantments of this beloved city ever 
so slight, you will understand, without any longer explanation, both my depar- 
ture and my return. After an absence of some months, your native land recalls 
you, your distant friends extend their arms to you, you represent to yourself 
your interest and your duty, and suddenly start in the greatest haste. Yes, but 
no sooner have you taken the few first steps, than you say to yourself, " Who 
knows whether my friends expect me so soon ? How can my idleness be of any 
service to my country ? This affair which appeared so surrounded by difficulties 
1 find very simple, now that I think of it. Besides, when. I have once quitted 
the city of my admiration and my study, who can tell when I shall return to it ?" 
Such was the argument I addressed to myself, when standing upon the quay at 
Havre, while the returning packet-boat rode upon the gently-agitated wave. 
Meantime the sun arose brilliantly, reflected to a great distance, by the calm, 
serene sky of Normandy. If you will only lend an attentive ear, you can, even 
when at Havre, hear the sonorous noises, the imposing harmonies, the dreams 
of the great city; and then my own American land is so far off! Paris so near ! 
Come, where is the risk ? Why should I go so quickly ? Three months more : 
only three new months of observation, of chatting, of long races after the streets, 
the monuments, the changing manners ; three months, in which I may be per- 
mitted to see the verdure, the flowers, the castles, the monuments, the old ruins 
and the modem ruins, of the Parisian country ; time to run through the en- 



'514 ROUEN — OPENING OF THE RAILWAY. 

chanted woods of Marly, time to study the seven or eight castles of all epochs 
which have assembled in the gardens of Fontainebleau, time to admire the land- 
scapes of Chantilly and Compiegne. It is decided : I return to Paris ; transport 
me to the park of Meudon, so filled with interesting histories ; lead me to the 
palace of Versailles, which encloses all the great century within its wall of mar- 
ble and gold In pity, grant me a little respite, a few days more ! Think 

that the smiling forest of Montmorency, with its profane shadows, chattering 
groves, echo that repeats so many imprudent words, fresh paths which J. J. 
Rousseau was the first to trace with his poetic step — think that all this shade is 
about to disappear, that the whole forest has been sold at auction by the heirs of 
that vicious and heartless problem, lately called Madame de Feucheres — a good 
name, the glory of which even this woman could not tarnish, so plainly had her 
husband shown himself to be the indignant, generous father of the poor ; think 
of all this, and you, my American friends and brothers, suffer two or three more 
packets to go and return, and then I will leave ; I will leave happy, I will leave 
contented, I will leave with the disposition to admire none but ourselves, the chil- 
dren of Washington and of Franklin. 

So said I, and so did I. Here I am again, after having stated at the close of 
my book* that I was about to quit Paris for New York. I return by the same 
route which had conducted me to the borders of the ocean. The wave of the 
sea carries you to the mouth of the Seine ; a large boat called La Normandie 
deposites you upon the quays of the city of Rouen, a great and important capi- 
tal. You salute from afar the monuments, the ruins, the beautiful prospects, 
of this province, which is rich among the richest. Gothic cathedrals, castles of 
the eleventh century, tombs of the Norman dukes, fortresses through which 
have passed, by turns, the Williams and the Richards, Philip Augustus and the 

Black Prince a whole poem ! Look attentively, and in these fertile plains, 

beneath the springing verdure of the wheat which covers the meadow, you will 
certainly recognise a field of battle. In these vast spaces, now so highly culti- 
vated, formerly met France and England, armed to the teeth : they fought against 
each other during three hundred years ; they fought with rage and blasphemy ; 
and yet do you know what beautiful sight awaited me at the very gates of 
Rouen ? I can assure you it was hardly to be believed. I had been through 
these same paths not a week before ; I had traversed in a carriage this same pic- 
turesque route, each city of which bears an historical name ; and now what 
means this concourse of a whole people ? why are all these banners displayed ? 
why does the cannon roar so loudly ? why are all the church-bells ringing ? why 
this mingling of music and joyous sounds ? why do all the clergy, with their 
venerable archbishop at their head, cross the city, preceded by the holy stand- 
ards ? what fete are they celebrating ? and who then is expected with so much 
impatience, with all this delight and pride ? What a happy circumstance ! I 
reached Rouen at the very moment when the railroad made its triumphant entry 
into the beautiful province. The city of Rouen, decked with her finest orna- 
ments, was expecting a royal visit which was paid her by the city of Paris, con- 
ducted by two sons of the king, young men worthy of their rank, the Duke de 
Nemours, destined, by the death of his brother, the Duke d'Orleans, to render 
to France such important services, and his youngest brother, the Duke de Mont- 
pensier, who is scarcely escaped from his college studies, and who is so proud 
to wear the uniform of the artillery. They arrived amid the universal joy, bring- 
ing with them all who bear a great name, in politics, in the sciences, in the liter- 
ature, in the fine arts of this century. With more than the rapidity of a race- 
horse, these thirty-four leagues had been crossed, and now the prince was re- 
ceived by a double crowd, at once English and French ; for, strange to say, this 
beautiful path through the richest landscapes of France, is the joint work of the 
two people. French workmen, English workmen — the money of both coun- 
tries, the ingenuity of the two nations —English composure, French impetuosi- 
ty — the solidity of the former, the elegance of the latter — all have been em- 
ployed. In two years to a day, they had accomplished this vast undertaking ; 

* The American in Paris, which you may, if you please, consider as the first volume of your 
sketches. 



LIBERALITY OF FEELING — THE EXPOSITION AT THE LOTJVRE. 65 

they had surmounted obstacles which appeared insurmountable ; the glory was 
common, the triumph was divided. On the French side, they cried, " Long 
live Locke, the English engineer !" On the English side, they exclaimed, 
" Hurra for Brunei the Norman ! he is the greatest engineer in the world !" 
— " You have given us a road across the ocean," said the French. " We owe 
you the tunnel under the Thames," said the others. On this day, both parties 
ate at the same table, they drank from tlie same glass, they fraternized with the 
close fraternity of effort and labor. A whole ox was served up to them ; what a 
Homeric repast ! And certainly more patience and as much courage were ne- 
cessary to cut down all these hills and to fill up all these valleys, in so short a 
space of time, as to take the city of Troy in ten years. Listen to what I saw on 
this memorable day : even a whole population triumphant, serious, satisfied with 
their work ; I saw an old archbishop, formerly grand almoner of France in the 
time of his majesty King Charles X. — one of those vanquished men who seem 
more eminent in their defeat than they were in their prosperity — gravely in- 
voke the blessing of the Roman catholic church upon steam-engines conducted 
by protestants, and these protestants bow the head with respect. What a con- 
trast to that fatal day on which the English burnt as a sorceress, in one of the 
squares of this city of Rouen, the most virtuous and the most holy heroine 
of France, the Maid of Orleans ! 

Thanks to the hospitality of this memorable day, I reached Paris more rap- 
idly, than if I had put four post-horses to my carriage. On the road, I heard, 
that the very evening before, the railroad from Paris to Orleans had been open- 
ed ; so that the cathedral of Orleans, Notre Dame of Paris, and Saint Ouen of 
Rouen — those three wonders of Christian art and Christian belief — are but at 
the distance of ten leagues from each other, thanks to this double revolution 
of the two railroads. 

Where was I ? I was telhng you that among other surprises, among 

other enjoyments of the beautiful season in Paris, the Exposition at the Louvre 
was waiting for me. This exhibition of modern painting is a yearly event; it is 
the subject of conversation two months beforehand ; for two months it excites 
the most feverish impatience — you can not hear yourself speak for the noise. 
Who is to be seen this year ? What paintings are as yet concealed in the stu- 
dio ? What is M. Ingres doing I What battle is M. Eugene Delacroix pre- 
paring ? Will M. Delaroche have finished his new drama ? Do you know that 
M. Paul Flandrin has had two portraits refused ? You may hear in advance 
of the wonderful landscapes of Jules Dupre, and the beautiful canvasses of Ma- 
rilhat. Is not Morel Fatio's sea-piece an exquisite thing ? Look at those 
dealers in ehony ;* how furious they are — how horrible to see ! You know, 
and it is certainly true, that that skilful and clever sculptor, Antonin Moine, has 
begun to draw in crayons, and that his portraits are full of grace, elegance, and 
life ? So much the better for the painters, if Antonin Moine becomes a painter ; 
so much the worse for the sculptors if he renounces sculpture. I can tell you the 
name of Pradier's new statue, it will be called Cassandre. And I saw yester- 
day (by risking one eye) two of Eugene Giraud's paintings. The fresh, beau- 
tiful young girls that he has drawn ! how well he knows how to dress and adorn 
them, without appearing to take any trouble about it ! They say wonders of 
Maxirae David's miniatures, such good likenesses, and so well painted. There 
is one thing certain, and that is, that Camille Roqueplan will not send anything 
to the Louvre. Tony Johannot is very busy preparing beautiful prints for the 
book-trade. Ary Scheffer, the solemn painter of Faiist and Margaret, y/iW 
shine this time by his absence ; even Decamps, who excited so many emotions 
and so much praise, will let no one enter his studio. What a strange man he 
is ! The minister wished to give him the croix d'honneur ; " I should much ra- 
ther," said he, " have permission to hunt." Have you not seen the beautiful 
sketch of Charles V. picking up Titian's pencil 1 Depend upon it, this will be 
one of Robeit Fleury's best pieces. Leon Cogniet will alarm you with his Z,e 
Tintoret at the death-hed of his beloved daughter. For my part, since Redout6 

* This alludes to a painting which represents the capture of a slaver. — E. T. 

5 



66 THE OPENING OF THE LOUVRE — FIRST HOUR AT THE SALOON. 

died, carrying with him the last flowers from his garden, I have seen nothing 
finer than the Garland of M. Saint Jean. In point of historical paintings des- 
tined for the Museum at Versailles, you will have, they say, two copies of 
Achille de Harlay, one by M. Vinchon, the other by M. Abel de Pujol. The 
other day, I waited upon General Beaume; he was fencing, pencil in hand, in the 
plain of Oporto ; he led Marshal Soult to victory right valiantly. I have heard 
that Mademoiselle Journet has taken pity on the learned Lavoisier, and pro- 
duced a painting in honor of this clever chemist, who fell by the hands of the 
executioner. Such conversations, and many similar ones, are held at the door 
of the Louvre. At last, however, the Louvre is opened ; the crowd of artists 
and of the boldest virtuosos enter in haste ; each looks first with an anxious eye 
for his own picture, and then for that of his neighbor. It is to be hoped the 
Council of Painting have not turned out of the Louvre, the work which has 
cost its author so much trouble and so many sleepless nights ! It is to be hoped 
these pitiless judges have not banished from public view and admiration, that 
beautiful canvass, that exquisite statue ! They go, they come, they look, they 
hasten, they push each other, they examine the catalogue. And besides) will 
they be well placed upon the walls of the Louvre ? No, the place is bad. Too 
much sun I No sun at all ! A glaring light ! Profound darkness f I should 
have been so much better in the square saloon ! They have hoisted me above 
a door ! And I have been put by the side of the Flemish gallery ! Thus, when • 
once the Louvre is open, the outcries are renewed on every hand. We how- 
ever, who are only cool spectators, traverse with a somewhat solemn step, this 
magnificent collection of all the fine arts. 

The sun shines brilliantly in these galleries, which are thronged with an im- 
mense crowd. Among the admirable rapins (an emphatic word to designate 
great, but unknown artists), you will see long beards, long hair, long teeth, long 
hands appearing beneath coats which are too short. There is a brilliant, ani- 
mated, above all, sarcastic conversation ; bon-mots fly in all directions, and will 
even strike the very centre of the frightened, trembling canvass. Whoever you 
are, beware of this first hour at the saloon, it is pitiless ; sarcasm is in every 
eye, upon every lip. Nothing is spared, neither name, nor sex, nor age. But 
especially if the institute should happen to send here its rarest masterpieces — 
the institute, which is composed of the members of the council which opens 
or shuts the Louvre, spends there an unhappy quarter of an hour, and it is the 
least they can expect, if their cruelties are repaid by raillery. " Oh ! oh !" says 
one, " here are Couderc's generals, they are all blue." " No," says another, 
"they are white." A third maintains that they are black. The fact is, that 
not one painting has, at first, its natural color ; they must become accustomed 
to the daylight. " Have you seen," says one, " the beautiful painting of Eu- 
gene Delacroix ?" " Have you seen," says another, " the abominable painting 
of Eugene Delacroix ?" " How ugly the Trajan is !" exclaims the second. 
" How beautiful the robes are !" answers the first. " Come to the left into the 
great gallery ; I will show you Gudin's Bosphorus of Thrace." " You mean 
the phosphorus of Thrace!" But we should never end, if we were to attempt to 
tell you all this innocent spite. 

But the first thing we seek, in this collection without confusion, is the por- 
traits which, every year, encumber the saloons of the Louvre ; so numerous are 
the great men and beautiful women of France. Of all the works of painting, 
the most important for the traveller who wishes to know the men of a nation, 
and above all the most difficult for a painter who understands his art, that which 
speaks most to the imagination and the memory, is the portrait. From merely 
seeing these great men of peace or war, it seems to you that you can recognise 
them. You listen, as if you expected to hear them speak. The more import- 
ant were the historical epochs, the finer were the portraits of those times. The 
age of Leo X. is justly proud of the likeness of Leo X. by Raphael ; King 
Charles Stuart had, for his painter in ordinary, no less a person than Vandyke. 
The terrible Henry VIII. sat to Holbein; Louis XIV., who had Lesueur, 
contented himself with Mignard. As for the Emperor Napoleon, of whom there 
does not now remain one good portrait, worthy of such a model — the Emperor 



M. INGRES — HIS PORTRAIT OF M. BERTIN. 67 

Napoleon, although he never suspected it, had at his command an artist equal 
to the greatest portrait-painters — M. Ingres. 

While the empire was yet clothing itself with its embroidered uniforms, and 
covering itself with its golden stars, there lived at Rome, amid the unrivalled 
splendors which he so much admired, an unknown artist — M. Ingres. This 
man, who is the greatest, or at least the gravest artist of his time, seemed to 
have a presentiment of the imperial fall, and of the approaching end of that mil- 
itary monarchy, which furnished to the painters of the empire nothing but ep- 
aulets, swords, and uniforms — for the heroes who wore them had but little 
time to spend in the studios of the portrait-makers ; and he therefore devoted 
himself exclusively to the study of the great Italian masters. By close and 
daily application, and by copying, for a trifling sum, every person who would sit 
to him, M. Ingres learned to dispense with all the sparkling and military acces- 
sories, which his majesty the emperor and king had brought into fashion. So 
that when the empire fell, and after the empire, the restoration, carrying with 
them the little of exterior decoration which remained in France — when M. Gerard, 
after having entirely failed in one of the finest and noblest heads of the day, that 
of M. Lamartine, had given up painting men so badly dressed — when M. Gros, 
conquered by the grotesque uniform of Clot Bey, had unjustly, foolishly, and 
criminally, laid violent hands upon himself — then appeared M. Ingres ; he came 
at the very moment when portrait-painting seemed impossible. " Ah !" said he 
to the stupefied Parisians, " you do not know how to dispense with all this bad 
embroidery of the restoration and the empire ! Ah ! to enable you to make 
beautiful portraits, you require a military court and robed senators ! Courage, 
my children, courage ! imitate me, learn to do without all this tinsel." And in 
order to prove what he advanced, Mr. Ingres went to seek, among the least dec- 
orated and most excellent citizens of the day, a man who would never accept 
place, nor dignity, nor any of those exterior signs, by which so many ordinary 
men make themselves known in the crowd of ordinary people. And in very 
deed, for the realization of the project, or rather of the revolution of M. Ingres, 
never was model better chosen. Picture to yourself a man of ancient times, 
the handsomest and youngest of old men, of an elevated stature, which age had 
not been able to bend, with a broad, intelligent forehead, covered with white 
hair ; an eye lofty, yet kind, quick, and yet certain ; a smile full of mischief, 
wit, and benevolence ; in a word, the calm, thoughtful head of a philosopher 
and a thinker. The figure, the walk, the body, the hands, all corresponded 
with the head. M. Ingres reproduced in all its perfection, the beauty of his 
model, not without having studied it with rare complacency. And when, at 
last, in the Saloon of 1834, appeared this chef d'ceuvre, worthy of Titian him- 
self — and remember, I know the magnitude of the great name I pronounce — 
immediately the crowd pressed around it astonished, asking, "Who is it ?" He 
was dressed like all the world, in a plain coat of black cloth ; he was seated 
in an ill-made arm-chair of mahogany, which is, as you know, a proscribed 
wood ; he did not wear in his button-hole the least morsel of red riband, he re- 
clined in the most natural attitude, like an honest citizen, who on some fine 
summer's day, dreams of the future improvements of his country-house ; and 
yet, such is the sure instinct of the crowd when the truth is addressed to them, 
no one thought of comparing this portrait with the portraits of all the citizens, 
decorated or non-decorated, a dull crowd of common faces, and bedizened coats, 
which surrounded this masterpiece of M. Ingres. At the first glance thrown 
upon the living canvass, the people had recognised the thinker, the philosopher, 
the wise and prudent politician, the truly courageous citizen who had, all his 
life, preferred the interest of the mass to that idle popularity which asks nothing 
better than to be their very humble servant. The triumph of M. Ingres was 
complete ; and certainly this must have been a happy hour to him, when he had, 
at last, realized the great ambition of his life ; to execute the portrait of a Paris- 
ian citizen, and show himself equal to the greatest masters of Spain and Italy. 
The portrait of M. Bertin, by M. Ingres, therefore, effected an entire revolution ; 
by this was demonstrated, and the demonstration has remained without answer, 
that great painters did not need all those exterior decorations of which the ancient 



68 COUNT MOLE — M. CMAMPMARTIN — DUTCHESS DE NEMOURS. 

masters were so profuse We must, however, except Titian and Ra- 
phael, who are ahvays very frugal of ornaments. No sooner had this victory 
been gained by the portrait of M. Bertin, senior — that excellent man, whom his 
friends still mourn, whom his disciples will never forget — that M. Ingres, the 
illustrious painter, saw enter his studio, one of the men, who, at that time, valued 
himself most upon his personal dignity. He, no less than M. Bertin, senior, is 
a great and skilful politician, only he has directed affairs, at the same time by 
counsel and by action. In all the more than American democracy, which threat- 
ens to invade the whole of France, there yet remains one gentleman, who thor- 
oughly understands all the responsibilities of the great name which his fathers 
have transmitted to him. Before such a man could decide, then, to allow him- 
self to be painted by an artist like M. Ingres, he must certainly have found out 
that M. Ingres was the greatest painter of the aristocracy of that epoch. At 
first, M. Ingres hesitated ; but, such was the passion of Count Mole to be im- 
mortalized by this master hand, that he insisted with all his power; he yielded 
to all the exactions of this austere and conscientious artist, who is never con- 
tented with having done well, so long as it is possible that he can do better. From 
this happy concurrence of two such wills, has resulted a work, equal perhaps to 
the portrait of M. Bertin; if you have not in this all the plebeian greatness of 
the first model, there is, on the other hand, something perhaps more delicate ; 
you may distinguish in this carefully studied physiognomy, all the elegant habits 
of a man of the old regime, brought up under the eyes of the emperor, and who 
never forgets, when he speaks to a king, how men ought to approach these ma- 
jesties, perishable if you will, but still royal. If you wish for an account of this 
portrait of M. Mole, you must fancy, united upon the same canvass and in the 
same head, the smile of M. de Chateaubriand and the look of Meyerbeer. 

Such is the skilful and learned artist who has been given to France, that he 
may worthily represent her great men. It must be owned that models have 
failed M. Ingres much more than he has failed his models. And who, then, at 
this day, in this France of bright intellects — by accident, of great orators — has 
dared to dream of posterity for him and his works ? No, no, the people of France 
do not think of so much glory; one single painter suffices, and more than sufili- 
ces, to represent what is really French glory. For less celebrated characters, 
they have others who are not so exacting as M. Ingres : they have M. Champ- 
martin, a skilful artist, of rare mind, full of rapture and gayety, to whom they are 
indebted for the portraits of the Duke de Fitz James and the Duke de Crussol ; 
they have, to delineate their finest, yovmgest, and prettiest women, two painters 
who can hardly accomplish this important task ; M. Winterhalter, and especially 
the master of all these great fabricators of velvet and smiles, of laces and ele- 
gance, of pearls and light hair, M. Dubufe. 

But, let me tell you a little incident, which will enable you to form some 
judgment of the stroke, and the fabulous rapidity of this Winterhalter, the 
aiuhor oi Decameron, that brilliant sketch, which might be taken for a posthu- 
mous and exaggerated work of Sir Thomas Lawrence himself. When the Dutch- 
ess de Nemours had been presented to the court, to France, and finally to Paris, 
there was, in the world of the fine arts, a strange emulation, which, among all 
the painters, all the sculptors, and all the engravers of medals, should take the 
portrait of the new dutchess. Independently of the rank which she occupies 
with so much grace, simplicity, and modesty, the princess is so young and so 
beautiful, her complexion is so clear and lively, her beautiful light hair floats in 
tlie breeze, so silky and so luxuriant, that not one of the portrait-painters, who 
•are among the most skilful, would have refused the honor of giving a faithful 
image of this young woman, even without any other charms than the spring 
charms of youth and beauty. At last, one day, two artists were introduced at 
the palace of Neuilly, to the Dutchess de Nemours, the one to take her portrait, 
the other to prepare a medallion of her. They arrive — they enter ; already the 
painter is at work, and while the engraver, with an attentive eye, studies his royal 
model, our artist throws upon the canvass this charming head ; he proceeds hke 
a man who improvises with wonderful readiness. Meantime the engraver slowly 
arranges everything ; he traces with a hght hand, upon the complaisant wax, the 



M. DUBUFE THE LADIES. 69 

features which must afterward be reproduced ; he is grave, he is slow, he is sol- 
emn. He had therefore scarcely commenced his medal, before the painter had 
entirely finished his picture. "Madam," said he, " your royal highness is re- 
leased from me — I have finished." " But it is impossible !" cried Barre. " Look, 
then," replied Winterhalter. And in fact there was the faithful likeness of the 
Dutchess de Nemours ; it was her beautiful color, her infantile grace, her small 
head, a head which Greuse himself, in his brightest days of poetry and elegance, 
would not have disowned. "That I may not trouble your royal highness," said 
Winterljalter to the Dutchess de Nemours, " I will take away the portrait ; I will 
paint the dress at home ;" and he did as he said. And what is still more incred- 
ible is, that it is a work full of spirit, life, and talent. 

As for the other artist whom we named, M. Dubufe, he is, in his own style, a 
kind of M. Ingres, but M. Ingres improvising, and ready fdr anything. Like M. 
Ingres, M. Dubufe has his way of seeing, studying, and imitating nature, which 
he would not give up for any consideration. In the crowd of the most beautiful 
beings in creation, in all which bears a dress, an embroidered tucker, white hands, 
and a feminine countenance, M. Dubufe sees only that which is polished, soft, 
and brilliant ; he has at once suppressed every wrinkle, every wart, the slightest 
blemish to the figure ; he has said to time, " Thou shalt go no farther ; thou shall 
not pass the twentieth year !" and even time, which is said to be inflexible, has 
obeyed M. Dubufe. Time has drawn back before his pencil laden with roses, 
with satin, with laces, with carmine, with freshness, with black hair. If perchance 
M. Dubufe consents to paint light hair, it is by a refinement of coquetry. It is 
necessary that the happy models whom he adopts, that he may give them this 
immortality during life, should all, whether they please or not, be endowed with 
the same advantages. He treats them less like an impartial painter, than in the 
paternal way of a good father, who wishes all his children to be equally young, 
equally handsome, equally rich. No jealousy, no discontent ! M. Dubufe gives 
them all the same beauty, the same elegance, the same youth, the same tall, slight 
figure. During the nearly fifteen years in which he has been the king of por- 
trait-painters, M. Dubufe has addressed himself almost entirely to the most 
lovely half of the human race ; but then how he has surrounded his charming 
models with flattery and attention ! What silk, what velvet, what rich laces he 
has expended, that he might dress them well ! To hear him, you would think 
they never had pearls enough on the head, or diamonds on the neck, or flowers 
sufficiently fresh for the corsage. " Pray tell me what that foot is ? what is that 
fat arm? that emaciated shoulder ? I wish your arm to be slender, your shoul- 
der to be fresh and soft, your foot to be just that size." And as he says, he acts ; 
so that suddenly plunged into this fountain of youth, the ladies of M. Dubufe 
are but twenty years old, their complexions resemble the lily and the rose, their 
fingers are like their complexions ; and besides this, they are always dressed in 
the newest fashion. As nothing is wanted to set them off — as the painter is in 
the habit of placing them in magnificent gilded arm-chairs — as he presents them 
to you, sometimes leaning upon beautiful marble columns, very rare in these 
countries which are so little Italian ; some, in the midst of gardens filled with 
flowers ; or at least in splendid saloons adorned with wonders — those ladies, 
whose great ambition it is to be beautiful and well dressed, and to appear rich, 
can refuse nothing to M. Dubufe. They have named him their painter in or- 
dinary, in reward for his gallantry ; they have made his fortune and his glory. 
Imprudent coquettes ! And, besides, what signifies the future to them ? what 
do they care about to-morrow, so that they are lovely to-day ? It is in vain for 
you to tell them that likenesses pass so quickly, that the velvet of a painting 
fades like all other velvet ; that in a portrait the countenance alone is durable-— 
that it alone is eternal ; that these robes and ornaments, which seem to them in 
such good taste, because they are the fashion to-day, will be ridiculous in twenty 
years ; they are not thinking of twenty years hence ; the point in question is, 
that they wish to be beautiful, now, immediately, at this moment ; they wish to 
smile tenderly upon themselves, and contemplate at their ease, to the end, even 
till death, that beauty which is so dear to them ; this is all their concern ; they 



70 YOUTH OF M. GUIZOT DEATH OF MADAME GUIZOT. 

have been the admired of an hour, and are therefore content; unUke the great 
men of M. Ingres, who wish to be great ahvays. 

Among other portraits worthy of attention, the portrait of M. Guizot, which 
all America has asked from M. Paul Delaroche (a well-merited honor), has 
deserved the sympathy of all. The engraving which M. Calamatta has made 
of this portrait of M. Guizot, is exceedingly good, and quite worthy of the 
model. 

It is the puritan appearance of that convinced writer, who has passed through 
so many vicissitudes of fortune. Poor, without name, urged onward by the in- 
ward feeling which promised him such great things, he had, at first, difficulty in 
finding a newspaper which would consent to print his finest pages. M. Guizot 
had no youth ; his father, who died upon the revolutionary scaffold, had be- 
queathed to him the everlasting grief of his remaining parent. In his misery, 
the young man no longer knew whence liberty was to come ; liberty had killed 
his father. But, this monarchy which traces back so far — must it be abandoned 
to that abyss into which it is throwing itself headlong ? It is known, that at this 
moment in the history of France, more than one honest conscience felt itself 
troubled and uneasy. This uneasiness, this trouble, was the presentiment of 
future revolutions. That which decided M, Guizot in his devotedness to the 
house of Bourbon, was the flight of King Louis X VIII., forced to quit his throne 
in the middle of the night, while Bonaparte advanced at the head of the legions 
which he had assembled on his route. That which alienated him from the 
Restoration which he had so well defended, was the pride, the insolence, the in- 
gratitude of that Restoration, which had reached its highest point of power and 
splendor. The pride of M. Guizot was for him, like an irresistible force, in his 
days of misfortune. When he saw himself turned out of his places, driven from 
his pulpit, odious to tliat monarchy which he had so faithfully served, not like a 
courtier, but like a good citizen, M. Guizot retired without uttering the slight- 
est complaint, and then you might have seen him, such as he really is, unruffled 
and invincible. Poverty, so dreaded by all the men who govern France at the 
present day, has never alarmed M. Guizot, and it is just because he knew how 
to be poor, that he has reached his present high and incontestable character for 
probity. In his occupation as a writer, his wife was constantly associated with 
him, his trusty, devoted wife, with her firm, rare mind, calm good sense, admi- 
rable courage, and profound resignation to the decrees of Providence. Poor wo- 
man ! she died happy, for before dying, she had foreseen the new destinies of 
her husband ; and that, at no very distant day, in a great tempest, which wa-s 
gathering, France would not vainly invoke the genius, the courage, the wis- 
dom, the foresight, of that man, who found himself reduced, to become the 
translator of Latourneur's Shakspei-e, in order to obtain a livelihood. 

Since we are speaking of the happiest and most skilful portrait-painters, we 
must not forget the name of an amiable artist, who has taken some charming 
likenesses ; Isabey, the favorite painter of the imperial court. Isabey had an 
all-powerful motive for representing from nature, these beautiful models, who 
have grown old so quickly, because the ladies of the present day think their cos- 
tume ill chosen, and will not, on any account, dress like their grandmothers, the 
wives of the generals and marshals of the empire ; this motive was, his admira- 
tion for the whole sex ; at first, he entertained for them the feelings of a lover, 
and now he has those of a father, so true is it, that there is love, even in the 
depths of paternal tenderness. Happy man, thus to have seen and studied, co- 
temporary history, under its sweetest aspect ! Of this epoch, so filled with wars, 
revolutions, and tempests, he has known nothing but the histories of joy and 
peace. I was sitting the other evening with an old lady, who was a belle among 
all the belles at the commencement of the Empire. She has now for a long 
time, contented herself with being nothing more than an excellent person with 
much tact and good sense ; and talks to you of her youth, as of a thing which 
she scarcely remembers. Of all her former beauty, this amiable woman has 
presei-ved nothing but a portrait by Isabey, which is a masteri^iece. It is impos- 
sible to unite upon a smaller space, a more rare assemblage of all which com- 
poses- gr:ace., mind, and beauty. It was one of those which attracted so mucli 



VANDALISM — A VISIT. 71 

attention at the Louvre when the emperor first opened it to modern artists. In 
this Exposition, the principle objects of remark were the battles drawn by Gros 
in the suite of the emperor, and the beautiful heads copied by Isabey in that of 
the emperess. The officers troubled themselves but little about Gros's battles, 
for in this turbulent empire, life was but one long battle ; the portraits of Isabey, 
however, excited the greatest attention, and many a dispute was held, as to the 
charms, not of the fair original, for they did not know her, but of the portrait 
before their eyes. 

But what will be said to these French people, who profess to be such warm 
admirers of the arts, when we add, that during the Exposition of the Louvre, 
the chefs d'oeuvre of the old masters — Titian, Rubens, Michael Angelo, Raphael, 
Cuyp, Gerard Dow — are covered by an ignoble baize, upon which are hung the 
paintings of modern artists? And they ask how the Louvre could be filled, if 
it were completed, when they have not a gallery for their Exposition, without 
forcibly taking possession of a place, which every true artist would hold sacred 
to the masters of antiquity! Fy on them! fy on them! My Yankee breth- 
ren — notwithstanding the oftrepeated assertion that they are so absorbed in 
money-making, as to have neither time nor inclination to form a taste for the 
fine arts — would never have been guilty of such Vandalism, as to cover the 
paintings of those men to whose genius the world does universal homage, by 
the ephemeral productions of their own pencils. England may make you pay 
for tlie privilege of entering her exhibition ; but at least she gives you free and 
full permission to admire, at your ease, the riches of her National Gallery. 
France is the only country that will not permit you, at once to view ancient and 
modern artists. . . . But perhaps she is right ; it may be that she fears the 
contrast. . . . 



CHAPTER X. 



My first visit was naturally due to that beautiful and charming Madame de 

II , whose hospitality had been so unresei-ved and so complete. It was the 

same benevolent lady who constantly said to me last winter, " But you work too 
hard; youpushyour observations and your study too far; if, as it is said. Pans ti;as 
not built in a day, it will be impossible to understand Paris in less than a century ; 
be calm, then, do not attempt what you can not perfonu, but profit simply by what 
passes before your eyes." Thus she spoke, with the most affable smile and the 
kindest look. All that I know of Parisian conversation, I have learned at the 
house of this amiable woman ; for, in her saloon, sheltered from literary and po- 
htical disputes, the most friendly and the most delightful chatting has taken ref- 
uge. Alas ! since my departure, this lady, so beloved by her friends, has been 
ill. She had been seized with fever, without being able to tell, whence came 
this invisible shudder ; but the Parisian is so delicate a being ! Wavering 
health, languishing beauty, large eyes full of fire, but the fire of which suddenly 
disappears and is effaced, beautiful pale cheeks, a soft, melancholy smile. Let 
lightning flash through the heavens, let a little wind howl in the air, let a dog 
bark at night, let a door be noisily shut, and our Parisian is immediately trem- 
bling, enervated, incapable of exertion. A mere nothing is sufficient to make 
her pass from joy to grief, from laughter to tears ; a knitting of the brow, a pin 
badly placed, an unpleasant look or gesture ; no one knows what has caused it, 
nor indeed do they know themselves, unhappy creatures ! At any rate, Mad- 
ame de R had suiifered much ; not so much, however, but that she had 

found strength enough to dress herself, time to make herself beautiful, and to 



^ CONVALESCENCE — PARISIAN CAUSERIE — EUROPE A VAST SALOON. 

give her drawing-room an air of fete. Oh these women, the honor of elegance ! 
I know not how they die; but assuredly they can not die like the rest of their 
fellow-creatures. With their last sigh, they must think that it is necessary to 
be lovely even in death. More than one, I imagine, ponders beforehand, the 
embroidery of her winding-sheet. Poor creatures, distressed and yet courage- 
ous, devoted to their beauty, as Cato was devoted to virtue ! For the rest, there 
is a French line which expresses exactly what I wish to say, 

" Elle tombe, et, tombant, range ses vetements." 

The Parisian ladies have another good quality, which is, that nothing aston- 
ishes them. Madame de R. had bade me farewell, as if she were never to 

see me again. She had even had the kindness, to present to me a cheek already 
feverish ; she thought me far distant by this time, and yet ; " It is you !" said she, 
giving me her hand, just as if we had only parted the evening before. " I had a 
presentiment that you were not really gone ; you were attracted to Paris by too 
great a curiosity and admiration ; and besides, what is there to hasten you ? You 
return to us; you are quite right." "You see," replied I, "that when once 
a person enters Paris, it is impossible to quit it." Thereupon the conversa- 
tion became general. There was present, an old gentleman of title, of ele- 
gant life, of clear, lively thought, a friend of General Lafayette, a brother. in 
arms of Washington, who, both from his intelligence and want of other oc- 
cupation, played an important part in the first revolution. The conversation 
naturally turned upon the last century, which this nobleman loudly regret- 
ted, as one always regrets the happy moments and extravagancies of youth;; 
then he began to speak of all the men of former days, and all the women also,, 
of the Duke de Richelieu and M. de Voltaire, of the painter Greuze, and of 
Sophia Arnould, of whom Greuze made so beautiful a portrait. According to 
this good gentleman, this famous Sophia Arnould — to whom the eighteenth cen- 
tury lent all its bon mots, for the very good reason, that people lend only to the 
rich — was not the shameless woman that she is represented to us, in all the me- 
moirs. He then attempted to defend the character of Madame Dubarry, by 
showing that she was not the origin of all the vice of the age ! The poets of 
the last century were discussed. They spoke also — but of what did they not 
speak? of the private life of King Louis XV., of the Great and Little Trianon, 
of the prisoners in the chateau de Pignerole and the chateau de Vincennes.. 
M. de Richelieu was not forgotten in these histories of which he was the cen- 
tral point, as a lover, as a soldier, and as a nobleman. The whole evening pass- 
ed in this friendly and intimate chatting, of which France alone, among all po- 
lite nations, has still preserved the secret. After which, as it was near midnight, 
a very late hour for our invalid ; " Come," said Madame de R., "it is time for 
all to retire; we must separate. And you, my lord," added she, looking at the 
old gentleman, "ask pardon of these ladies for you and for myself, for our hav- 
ing involuntarily carried them back to this history, which is but too far from the 
history of our own times. Alas !" 

But again I repeat, that nothing can equal Parisian causerie in grace, vivacity, 
and wit. Sparkling and animated, its arrows are pointed, its very good nature is 
satirical. No one is better acquainted with the anecdotes and the ideas, the 
passions and the facts, the poems and the tales which agitate the world, than the 
Parisian gentleman, and with yet more emphasis may it be said, that no one 
knows them better than the Parisian lady. In this respect, Europe is like a vast 
saloon, all the members of which seem to be acquainted, from the fact of their 
living in the midst of the same elegances. London, St. Petersburg, Paris, Na- 
ples, Florence, those noble cities of intelligence and mind, are occupied, almost 
at the same day and the same hour, with the same poems, the same books, nay 
more, with the same dress, and the same gauze cap. He who writes the history 
of a drawing-room in St. Petersburg, writes, very nearly, the history of a draw- 
ing-room in Paris ; and therefore, in spite of the reality of my emotions, I am 
not without uneasiness for the book which I write amid Parisian flowers and 
shade, so well do I remember that everywhere there are the same flowers, the 
same mind, and the same spring. 



THE WINDMILL AT VERSAILLES. 73 

CHAPTER XI. 

VERSAILLES. 

The Sunday which followed the feast of the Assumption, I was at Versailles 
to see the great waters play. 

At so early an hour of the morning that the sun was as yet invisible, the 
Parisians were at the terminus of the railroad. All the carriages of the royal 
traveller were even then ready, the fire-horse neighed with all his power, 
breathing out fire and fiame through his half-opened nostrils ; the iron rail 
extended in a burning line from the streets of Paris to the gardens of Louis 
XIV. 

Versailles, what a vast and depopulated city ! Who, then, was this king, who 
filled this immense space with his own personal dignity ? What was this century 
which this palace, although so extensive, could scarcely contain ? What was 
this court, so numerous that when it walked out upon the turf, the last noble- 
man of the party had not descended the first steps, before the king was at the 
end of the Tapis vert ? 

This is one of the miracles of history, and in this world everything is under- 
stood except miracles. An abyss — what do I say ? — two revolutions, separate 
the Versailles of 1830 from the Versailles of 1681 ! How astonished would 
these vast dwellings be if they could return, in thought and remembrance, back 
to their first days of grandeur, when there was in this place, now laden with 
stone and marbles, nothing but ancient trees I Henry IV. came there to rouse 
the stag ; Louis XIII. quitted the oaks of Saint Germain for the woods of Ver- 
sailles ; and when night surprised him, the king slept in a neighboring windmill, 
little suspecting that not far from this humble shelter would rise a palace, suffi- 
ciently capacious to contain the greatest king and the greatest century of France. 
At last, in 1660, the real king of the chateau of Versailles — he who was to raise 
these walls, and people them with guests of talent and genius, Louis XIV. — ap- 
peared, and at his command this immense chaos was replaced by a magnificence 
full of art and taste ; in vain did nature, and the situation of the place, and the ster- 
ility of the ground, seem to present so many invincible obstacles to the will of the 
young monarch. Headed by Louis XIV., a council of clever men assembled 
to erect these superb dwellings. Mansard raised the ceilings which Le- 
brun covered with masterpieces ; Le Notre laid out the gardens, and spread 
through the barren earth whole rivers turned from their natural course by an 
army of workmen ; Girardon and Le Puget peopled the shores, the groves, the 
watery grottoes, with a variety of nymphs, tritons, and satyrs, with all the gods 
of mythology ; and when at last the palace was built and worthy of the king — 
Louis XIV., Colbert, the great Conde, all the leaders of the seventeenth cen- 
tury, took possession of it, as of their natural dwelling, and with them all the 
great minds of that fine epoch, the kings of thought and of poetry : nor must 
we forget other powers who saw at their feet the kings as well as the poets : 
Henrietta of England, and Mademoiselle dela Valliere ; Madame de Montespan, 
and Anne of Austria. Poetry and military glory inaugurated the chateau of Ver- 
sailles ; Louis XIV., the king of every kind of grace and elegance, the all-pow- 
erful monarch, who had in himself the sentiment of every grandeur, had made 
of this palace the only asylum which he considered worthy of his glory and his 
love, the only shelter of his labors and of the gloomy anticipations of his old age 
— so abounding with grandeur and melancholy. His whole life, his brilliant 
youth, his middle age, his decline— those last rays of the sun — were passed 
within these walls. 

Beautiful gardens, fountains, marbles, bronzes, old orange-trees covered with 
flowers, extensive lawn, trod by so many kings, so many queens, so many ambas- 
sadors, so many holy bishops, so many profane beauties, royalty of former days, 
vi^hose track can be so easily followed in these magnificent gardens ; it is impos- 
sible to salute you with indifference ! Every step taken in these dark alleys is a 
remembrance, every apartment in this funeral castle is an elegy. In vain are 



74 CHAMBER OF LOUIS XIV. — THE (EIL-DE-B(EUF — CHAPEL OF VERSAILLES. 

these splendid walls covered with new paintings ; in vain are they laden with bas- 
reliefs and emblems ; in vain do all kinds of statues stand erect in the splendid 

galleries you breathe in these magnificent places an undefinable odor of 

death. Here is the solemn chamber, in which the king of the great century 
died ; nothing is altered, or rather, everything has been restored to its place ; the 
bed is hung with the drapery embroidered by Madame de Maintenon ; the por- 
trait of Madame, Henrietta of England, for whom so many tears were shed — 
smiles, as in former days, with her calm, tender smile. The golden railing is 
closed ; upon the prie-dieu lies the king's prayer-book ; the quilt, divided into 
two pieces, has been found again — one half in Germany, the other in Italy ; the 
paintings on each side of the bed represent a Holy Family by Raphael, and a 
Saint Cecilia by Domenichino ; the ceiling is by Paul Veronese ; it was taken 
by the Emperor Napoleon from the gallery of the Council of Ten. The por- 
traits over the doors are by Vandyke. Never was the royal chamber more splen- 
did and more brilliant. If, at a short distance, you open that door, what an aus- 
tere retreat do you behold ! There knelt Louis XIV. at the feet of his confes- 
sor, when induced by Madame de Maintenon, at the close of his life, to assume 
at least the semblance of religion. In that other room, which has preseiTed a 
funeral aspect, in spite of its laughing pictures, died, not without pain or with- 
out regret, the king of the eighteenth century, the king of Voltaire and of Diderot, 
Louis XV. Look around you ; you are in the midst of his mistresses ; what 
beauties, what grace, what intelligence, what smiles ! and at the end of these 

feasts, this delirium, this love what an abyss, what a frightful gulf into 

which to fall ! 

Thus in this long journey through the splendors of the old palace of Ver- 
sailles, you pass from triumph to defeat, from royalty to nothingness ! This 
king, so young, so brilliant — adored more than a god — the same powerful being 
who walked in these magnificent gardens, to the sound of so many murmuring 
fountains — see him extended upon his death-bed ! Of all these kings, the last, 
the most upright, and the best, where will you find him ? Beneath the hand 
of the executioner ! Vanity, vanity ! . . . . ruin is there ; the palace of Ver- 
sailles may be filled with paintings, but to restore life to it is impossible. Look, 
look ! they tell us this is the CEil-de-bceuf— the ffiil-de-bceuf, that saloon where 
waited in respectful attention all the men of the great century. What a mel- 
ancholy silence after so many brilliant sounds ! Where are you, ye kings of 
French mind and genius, Bossuet, Corneille, La Fontaine, Moliere, Despreaux ? 
All around you see emblems, ciphers, busts, paintings, shadows, dreams ! I am 
in the chapel, and I ask if Father Bourdaloue, if Massillon is not coming, if the 
king and Madame de Maintenon will keep us waiting long ? Father Bourda- 
loue will not come, Massillon will not come. King Louis XIV. is no more, 
even in his leaden tomb at Saint Denis ; Madame de Maintenon has left this 
world ! And yet everything is ready for their reception. All the magnificence 
of the chapel has been restored to its primitive brilliancy. There you will still 
find, as in their novelty, the twenty-eight stone statues ; the high altar is of mar- 
ble and bronze, the walls are covered with bas-reliefs, the king's pew and Mad- 
ame de Maintenon's pew have preserved their windows surrounded by paintings ; 
the vaulted roof still bears a masterpiece by Coypel ; and finally, after having 
been violently torn from it, Louis XIII. and Louis XIV. are again seen, kneel- 
ing on each side of the altar, placing France beneath the protection of the holy 
Virgin. Ah ! how one single man of the great century would fill this silence, 
would animate these solitudes ! how readily would people then believe in this 
magnificent restoration ! 

But no, the animation, the brilliancy, the life of these royal dwellings, have 
been replaced by motionless statues, by paintings without name, by a brilliant 
collection of all kinds of recitals, equally before and since the time of Louis 
XIV. The truth is, that having raised this palace for his own personal gran- 
deur, Louis XIV. never dreamed that this spot could ever shelter any other 
majesty than the king of France. He had in himself a deep feeling of the 
greatness of the house of Bourbon, and he would have died of grief if he could 
have foreseen that one day this royal house, which was one of the beautiful 



FRENCH EOrALTY — LOUIS PHILIPPE AT VERSAILLES. 75 

works of his youth — the cradle of his children — would be thoroughly overturned 
by an enraged populace. No, certainly, this chateau de Versailles was not in- 
tended for such ravages. Such turf had not been laid around these sparkling 
waters to be trodden down by the stamping of the people ; these statues were 
not made to be pitilessly broken ; these aged trees, the venerable shadow of 
which filled the garden — he who had planted them with his royal hands, little 
suspected that the day would come when they would be torn up like so many 
frail rushes. When once the royalty of France had been hunted from these 
dwellings — when the king, the queen, and the dauphin, had been led to Paris, to 
die there — the palace of Versailles ought to have crumbled into dust, as a use- 
less and valueless thing. 

Magnificent among all the royal dwellings, the chateau de Versailles had 
been arranged for the express purpose of affording a suitable shelter to French 
royalty, as King Louis XIV. understood it. Just as he said, " The state is my- 
self," the sovereign master of so many millions of men ought to have been 
able to say, " Versailles is the whole of my reign." It was indeed the whole 
of his reign, for the life of the king and the fortune of France had been em- 
ployed in raising these walls, in planting these gardens, in forcibly leading to 
this dry ground spai-kling fountains ! Amid this long succession of stones cut 
with a golden chisel, surrounded by all his children, all his gentlemen, all his 
poets, all his captains, all the beauties of his court, the king led a truly royal 
life — an endless representation of every day and every hour. In this place, the 
grandeur of which astonishes you, met all the reports of the age, all the feel- 
ings of kings, all the hopes of nations. It was the centre of everything ; thence 
issued all the movements of this great kingdom. So long a reign in such a long 
succession of royal dwellings ! such beautiful walks, under those trees, where 
Moliere composed the most delightful scenes of his comedies ! such long hunts 
in these woods which the great and little Mews filled with their magnificence ! 
the Tapis vert ! and the groves which surround it ; and the orangery at the foot 
of the chateau ; and the basin of Neptune ; and the marble court ! Who would 
dare attempt to describe all ? who would wish to do so ? Well, this would be 
precisely the Avhole history of a centuiy, the whole history of a monarchy which 
finishes as the old fairy tales used to begin : " There was once upon a time a 
king and a queen !" 

It was on June 10, 1839, that King Louis Philippe I., seeing his task accom- 
plished, and wishing the whole of France to partake in the power and brilliancy 
of his triumph, invited, to inaugurate the palace of Versailles, all those men in 
Paris who were distinguished in politics, in the army, or in any of the arts of 
peace and war. This fete of June 10 has left, even in France, where every- 
thing is forgotten, lasting remembrances. People asked themselves how, in so 
short a space of time, in the midst of so many cares, and so much business, the 
king had been able to repair this immense ruin. At his voice, the sleeping pal- 
ace of Versailles had arisen ; the folding-doors opened as if Louis XIV. was 
expected. Louis Philippe had said to the palace of Versailles, " Open your 
gates ; you are the property of France." And thus, for the space of four years, 
from the top to the bottom of this palace, which is larger than a city, in the 
foundations or beneath the roofs, within the walls, beyond the walls, into the 
most obscure corners or the most splendid saloons, this indefatigable king has 
carried his fortune, his labor, his will, his historical science, his admiration for 
all the illustrious names, his respect for all the required glories, his boundless 
devotion, his profound and sincere admiration for all which constitutes the his- 
tory of France. 

Most certainly, to build the palace of Versailles, to plant these gardens, to 
bring fountains on to this baiTen plain, to shelter beneath these shadows a whole 
nation of statues, worthily to employ Mansard, and Lebrun, and Le Notre, and 
Pujet, and Coysevox, so many illustrious artists who died at this labor ; to spend 
more than a thousand millions of francs in accomplishing this impossible won- 
der; to summon to his aid, all the power, all the genius, all the money, of which 
the greatest king in the world could dispose, was very difiicult ; but yet, I do 
not think this work of the erection of Versailles can be compared to the task of 



76 INAUGURATION OF VERSAILLES. 

that king, who has undertaken to save, by a revolution, from its silent inevitable 
ruin, this immense palace. 

At the present day, then, the palace of Versailles is nothing more than a 
museum. Louis XIV. is confined to some few of his saloons, and to his sleep- 
ing-room ; it is no longer he who fills with his majesty the dwellings which he 
has erected. He is no longer alone — he is surrounded by all the dynasiies, by 
all the royalties, and even by all the revolutions of France. Anywhere but in 
the palace of Versailles, it is a collection which would not be devoid of gran- 
deur. All the epochs of France are represented in this succession of paintings, 
some of which are worthy of the artists who have signed them, while the great- 
est number evince the haste and mediocrity of the moment. Fabulous times are 
not forgotten here. France, the Gauls, even the Romans have their place in 
this medley; Charlemagne appears in it with his dynasty of feeble monarchs; 
every commencement, every origins every people, is painted upon these walls, 
which are astonished at so many anachronisms. The feudal barons, the knights 
of the crusades, pontiffs, ministers, abbots, all have their place on this vast page 
of a unique book, upon which was formerly written the unique praise of Louis 
XIV. Farther on, Francis I. appears to you, surrounded by his brilliant escort, 
and leading by the hand that beautiful sixteenth century, which could not be 
conquered and surpassed, except by the following one. 

But let us return to our account of the inauguration of Versailles. All the 
curious ones who had been invited to witness it, were transported with joy and 
pride. They arrived one after the other, or several at the same time ; but im- 
mediately upon their entrance into the court of honor, their attention was ex- 
cited. The first who welcome you are the great men of France — Bayard, 
Duguesclin, Turenne, Conde, Louis XIV. on horseback. Arrived at the 
marble court, the king's guests alighted ; they saluted with their first look and 
their first respect, the kings and warriors of the first race, epitaphs, sounds of 
war, tombs, galleries to which time has not yet given that funeral teint, which 
time alone can find upon its pallet of dnst and ashes. They stopped with en- 
thusiastic delight before that peasant girl, Joan of Arc, at once a warrior and a 
shepherdess, with the countenance of a woman, and the courage and the arm of 
a hero. It is, perhaps, the masterpiece of the museum at Versailles — a marble, 
doubly popular, from the name of the heroine, and from the name of the royal 
sculptress. 

They continued their course, marching from triumph to triumph, stopping 
before the celebrated engagements, admiring at their ease, the great emperor, 
in his different fortunes, in his various characters ; to-day crowned by the pope, 
to-morrow marrying the grand-daughter of the Coesars, afterward conquered 
and a captive, but soon leaving his island, and returning like a conqueror to his 
kingdom of a hundred days, and again defeated for the last time, and losing him- 
self in the infinity of his misfortune and his glory. It must have been an inter- 
esting sight, the day the museum was opened, to watch the old soldiers — the 
invalided marshals, wounded on every field of battle — walking slowly, silent, but 
not unmoved witnesses, crossing with a weary step this museum, or rather this 
field of war, melted even to tears, at the sight of their ancient triumphs, seeking 
themselves in the fight, beneath the shadow of their eagles and their emperor: 
so proud and so happy to find themselves, occupying their position of twenty 
years ago, in this unequalled assemblage of all royalties, all nations, and all 
principles I There were some, among these old heroes, who had not walked 
for ten years, but who stood erect again, at this smell of gunpowder. They re- 
turned to their happy days of encamping and privation. They again saw Tou- 
lon surrendering beneath the cannon directed by that short young man of pale 
complexion and fiery eye; they ascended the heights of Mount Saint-Bernard, 
dragging the artillery; they descended into Italy amid the sweet perfume of the 
orange-trees and the roses; they arrived in Egypt, and on those plains laden 
with sand, at the foot of the pyramids, they contemplated with a smile the three 
thousand years which returned their look with alarm. 

How many little imperceptible dramas must have passed this first day, in the 
palace of Versailles ! While the antiquarian joyfully deciphered the old in- 



VARIED TASTES — THE PETIT TRIANOW. 77 

scriptions on the old statues ; while the emperor's soldier marched, with a rapid 
step, in the suite of his emperor; while political men pondered the different 
scenes of parliamentary history, so filled with unexpected incidents, alarms, 
murders, and resistances — the calmest minds, those happy egoists, for whom 
the glory of arms is but a vain sound, power a useless force, courage a glorious 
peril, and victory a foolish parade — lost themselves in their meditations upon the 
clever minds which France has produced. These latter said in a low voice, 
that the greatest victory was not worth so much as a beautiful poem, that they 
would give Charlemagne for Regnier, and the Capitulaires for Malherbe's ode 
to Da Perkr. They stopped by instinct before the great masters, Rabelais, 
Montaigne, Corneille ; or, perhaps, more advanced, they regarded with affection, 
Boileau, Fenelon, Bossuet, Racine ; or else they saluted Montesquieu, Voltaire, 
Le Sage, J. J. Rousseau. Noble palace ! the asylum of every kind of glory, 
and every kind of poetry! The young men in the first ardor of youth, saw, in 
the palace of Louis XIV., only Louis XV., that handsome king of so much wit, 
carelessness, composure, and courage ! They followed the perfumed footsteps 
of the royal lover of Madame de Pompadour ; they did not even recoil before 
Madame Dubarry, that insolent but fascinating power ; they were in ecstacies 
before all these effeminate beauties, these somewhat manufactured graces, these 
young heroes of Fontenoi, who wore their swords and their ruffles with so be- 
coming an air. Some were the partisans of Marie Antoinette, the queen of 
France, the admii-able daughter of Germany, the queen of such distinguished 
courage and resignation ; others, leaping the seventeenth century, proclaimed 
Diana of Poictiers, the belle among beauties ; there were some who adored the 
queen of Navarre ; — others among the merry historians who form an isolated 
school, maintained that Catherine de Medicis was a much calumniated queen, 
and highly prized her flying squadron ; each one chose his favorite king among 
so many monarchs; this one, Francis L, Bayard's king ; that one, Louis XI., 
the friend of the people ; a third Louis XII., who was their father ; there were 
some who discovered good qualities in that negligent, whimsical monarch, Louis 
XIII. ; others were passionate admirers of Henry IV., and would even say to 
him, "Si?'e, yowr mistress is my queen." And finally — for all the royalties of 
France are permitted and acknowledged with the most courageous loyalty in 
the museum of Versailles — some, in their respectful emotion, paused before 
the Return of Louis XVIII., before the Coronation of Charles X., before the 
portrait of the dauphiness, and there was in their looks, less of reproach than of 
pity, regard, and interest. 

But do you see — beyond, under that verdant horizon of the great trees — at 
the very end of the tapis vert, farther than the canal which serves as a mirror to 
all this royal magnificence — do you see that house of such smiling aspect ? 
Certainly, by the side of the Versailles of Louis XIV., the Petit Trianon would 
attract but a small portion of the attention and respect of men. . . . And yet 
what delightful associations recall to us that small park, those beautifully simple 
walls ! To this turf which she pressed with so light a step, the queen of France 
came, to forget the ennui and the etiquette of royal majesty. Once at the Petit 
Trianon, the lovely queen felt more happy. All her diadem was the flowers of 
her garden; she held, with a joyous hand, the light crook ; in this dairy of white 
marble, she herself prepared — with such dehghtful awkwardness — the milk of 
her cows! Poor queen! how much she must afterward have regretted the 
sun, the waters, the flowers, the cream, and the strawberries, the sheep and the 
heifers of the Petit Trianon. 

For myself, it appears to me, that I see her still, in these sweet spots, so glad- 
dened by her royal beauty. The birds in the yoke-elm trees still sing of the 
queen of France; the swans of the basin seek her, as they skim with timid 
wing, these peaceful shores ; it is on her balcony in the evening, when the moon 
is veiled by some cloud from Paris, it is on the balcony of the Petit Trianon, 
that the light and sacred shadow rests, by preference. Trianon by the side of 
Versailles is the garland of flowers placed upon the giant's staircase. 

I know not how to tell you all the enjoyment of this day, passed amid so 
much splendor and so many imposing recollections. I saw at once all these 



78 VERSAILLES DESERTED — THE RAILROAD. 

things, the past and the present, the palace and the gardens, history and poetry, 
Christian eloquence and profane love ; palace, groves, flowers, gardens, marble 
basins, statues of stone and bronze, fantastical fountains, briUiant jets, Apollo 
and the Muses, all the divinities of fable, the dancing satyr, the intoxicated 
Bacchant, the rapacious Danae, the superb Juno, and the tearful Latona, all 
pass around you to the sound of aerial music ; all the things, and especially all 
the men who have ever existed, an immense tornado of things magnificent and 
sublime . . . and you remain, overwhelmed as it were, in silent contemplation. 

Versailles I Versailles ! now, thanks to these railroads, become one of the 
faubourgs of Paris; why has the city remained deserted? Why this profound 
silence in the streets ? Why these houses which you would say were inhabited 
by phantoms, these gardens, in which you will neither find the footstep of the 
child nor that of the old man? Ah! these ruins alarm the vulgar ; these long 
remembrances of the ancient monarchy frighten even the philosophers. Ver- 
sailles is no longer anything but a place to visit. Each wishes to come here, no 
one will remain ! I have myself been witness to this eagerness of the Parisians 
to fly before all these phantoms. 

Night was yet distant, it was the hoiu- when all the waters of the garden were 
slackened, the sun was less ardent, the tree fresher, the turf more green, the 
the water clearer. Beyond these, at the very end of the lake, where recom- 
mence the melodious murmurs of the nightmgale saddened by the crowd, in 
these gravelled alleys, where, with a little respect and pity, it would be easy to 
find again so many noble footsteps, I imagine I see the whole ancient court 
promenading in its most magnificent attire. It was not a vision I they were all 
there, the kings, the princes, the Condes, the Ttxrennes, the Bossuets. Yes, it 
was indeed the court of the greatest king in the universe. I saw in the distance 
the sparkling of the golden embroidery, the colors of the velvet, the steel of the 
swords, the jewelry of the ladies added to the whiteness of their bare shoulders 
— the feathers waving upon the brown locks agitated by the evening wind ! Oh 
that I could see the blue eyes of Mademoiselle de la Valliere, or the proud look 
of Madame de Maintenon, or Madame de Sevigne! . . . What a dazzling ap- 
parition ! It seemed to me that all who were walking in the palace of the Ver- 
sailles, were as much fascinated as I was, when suddenly I saw the whole crowd 
rushing, in the greatest haste, out of the gardens. If they ran so quickly, it 
was because the railroad called them. Singular people ! They will obey no 
one, and yet they have been vanquished by the necessity of arriving with punc- 
tuality, at the hour of departure. Every moment, immense convoys started to 
return and set out again with a new load. Several travellers directed their course 
on foot, towai'd that delightful wood which separates Ville-d'Avray from Saint 
Cloud, glancing over all the neighboring heights, covered with their white hous- 
es. In such beautiful weather, on such a lovely night, through these fresh 
paths which seem to sing, the road is not long ; and finally, if the dust annoys 
you, if you are thirsty, have you not, to refresh you at the end of the road, the 
two sparkling fountains of the place Louis XV. ? It is a whole river which falls 
and precipitates itself into these basins of marble and gold. Would you not 
say they were the jets d'eau of Versailles ? Where will you find a more mar- 
vellous collection of naiads, of marine monsters with open mouths, from which 
spout streams of water, of caprices of bronze and marble ! On the top of these 
inverted basins glides silently, the slender shadow of the obelisk ; the clear wa- 
ter distils like a beneficent dew in sonorous drops ; the bitumen of tv/o different 
colors extends its fine carpet beneath your feet ; the lamps throw to a distance 
the brilliancy of a fete- The tree, a shade itself, is lost in the shadow ; the sun 
sets quietly between the two arms of the Arc-de-Triomphe, which lulls it to 
sleep, as a nurse lulls off her child. What a delightful and well-filled day I 
what a beautiful domain ! what an interesting visit ! You go by the railroad ; 
you halt upon the steps of the palace of Versailles, and on the same evening, 
you may bathe your burning forehead in the basin of this lively and beautiful 
fountain, which the Arc-de-Triomphe protects with its shadow and its majesty. 



THE GARDENS OF FONTAINEBMAU. 79 

CHAPTER XII. 

FONTAINEBLEAU. 

After Versailles, our next excursion must be to Fontainebleau. It is true, 
that this time, we have a less imposing grandeur, but where will you find more 
delightful, and more ingenious chefs d'ceuvre! . . . Here, the associations are 
sufficiently numerous, but it seems to me, that they do not bear so strongly 
as at Versailles, the print of that sadness and melancholy which all vanquished 
things have about them. We will start then ; it is a beautiful road. The 
clouds which covered the sky have fled, driven away by a favorable wind. The 
rain, which fell in torrents, has ceased ; the sun kindly throws upon lis his 
warm rays ; you may see, rising as if by enchantment, the approaching harvest, 
which, only last evening, sadly lay upon the ground ; the merry postillions urge 
on their horses in a transparent whirlwind of dust ; this is really enjoyment, 
dust, and sun, a true Neapolitan sun ! 

Here we are ! How magnificent are the gardens of the Fontainebleau ! 
Oaks, which were cotemporaries of Francis I. and of Henry IV. ; old yoke 
elms, which lent their shadow to the varied whims of Louis XIV., even before 
that young king had traced out the plan of Versailles ; waters so abundant and 
so clear that they have given their name to these lovely spots ; everywhere, in 
the chateau, beyond the chateau, in these thousand interminglings of stone and 
turf, of marble and flowers, there is a natural appearance of majesty and gran- 
deur. Water circulates in the fosses, like a river in its bed ; the fish-pond shines 
at a distance, like a vast mirror, the only one which is worthy to reflect these 
splendors of nature and art. Notice, in the midst of this pond, a pavilion 
erected by the Emperor Napoleon. During the summer, his very victorious 
majesty was in the habit of holding his councils thei'e. Do not forget to salute 
these carp, whitened by time, which were no younger in the sixteenth century of 
the history of France, silent and tranquil witnesses of so many revolutions, 
which have glided over these waves, without leaving there one trace of their 
passage. These beautiful fish are a source of great amusement to visiters; 
they swim to them to ask a pittance. One of them carries a ring, a gold ring, 
which King Francis I. gave to it. The garden is open to any one who wishes 
to see it ; there is no bamer, no obstacle ; you are at liberty to promenade in 
all these enchanting grounds. But look at the chateau ; it is the work of Pri- 
maticcio, that Italian, who passed near Dante, without even touching the border 
of his cloak ; near Raphael without perceiving it, — if not afar off, yet so far, 
that the artist did not even think of following him. The chateau is magnifi- 
cent, affluent, and natural, like French genius. Strange and happy assemblage 
of all kinds of things ; ornaments without end, sculptures without motive, ca- 
prices, chances, dreams — turrets, towers, arrows, masterpieces ! And within, 
what brilliant fetes ! how many lovers concealed beneath these shadows, how 
many handsome young men gliding over these waters, intoxicated with art and 
poetry, accompanying with their soft murmurs the sound of the violins and the 
hautboys I it was the admirable and delightful hour when France returned from 
Italy, where she had been to seek — science learned so quickly ! — the great art 
of ornaments and dresses, beautiful pearls, rich jewels, magnificent armors, 
long poems, written under the enchantments of poetry and art. Already it is 
another France which reveals itself, it is the feudal France disappeai'ing, it is 
Louis XIV. who allows himself to be solicited! — Again I say, walk slowly upon 
the border of these limpid waters ; the swans in the basin salute you, by beating 
their wings ; lay yourself upon the grass, repeat the verses of Virgil, beneath 
the shadow of the flowery banks; sleep if you wish to sleep, you are the master 
of these lovely spots. But why sleep? This time also a whole history, a 
whole poem, summons you ; we will repose, at a later hour, when we have 
traversed this magnificent ensemble, when we have studied all these master- 
pieces, when we have penetrated into some few of the mysteries of the chateau 



80 HISTORICAL ASSOCIATIONS — NAPOLEON AND THE IMPERIAL GUARD. 

de Fontainebleau; here, Biron arrested by order of Henry IV. ; — a little far- 
ther, Queen Christina of Sweden, the suspicious queen, the jealous woman, 
assassinating Monaldeschi, her chamberlain, to the great scandal of the court of 
France, which was alarmed and indignant at such ungoverned fury; — and then 
look at that stone at the head of the staircase. Upon that superb slab was un- 
folded the greatest drama of history. 

It is hardly thirty years ago — already two ages ! — since, in that same court of 
the palace of Fontainebleau, which at the present day appears so calm, stood 
motionless, silent, afflicted, concealing their tears, the old guard of the great 
imperial anuy. This old guard, whose very name overthrew capitals, had fought 
upon every field of battle in the world. They were at Areola, at Aboukir, at 
Marengo ; they were the soldiers of Austerlitz, of Jena, of Friedland, of Madrid, 
of Wagram ; and now, after having passed through so much glory and so many 
perils, they found themselves vanquished and decimated in that narrow space, 
which was their last kingdom, their last field of battle ; and even this they must 
quit on the morrow, never again to see it, this corner of desolated earth. In 
this palace of Fontainebleau, each door and each window of which is now open to 
the sun of May and the flowers of the garden, the Emperor Napoleon concealed 
himself in his grief and his anguish ; in vain had he resisted allied Europe : the 
imperial eagle, mortally wounded in the sky of Moscow, had barely strength 
enough to come here and expire, beneath the heavens of Fontainebleau. And 
finally, the hour had come when the emperor himself must lay down this sword, 
which had weighed so heavily in the balance of the world , his sacrifice was 
completed, like his glory. Then opened the door of the palace ; the old guard, 
which was below, presented arms ; hearts beat so quickly ! tears were in every 
eye. They waited : at last this army, or, to speak more correctly, this handful 
of brave men, saw descend into the frightened court, which seemed to recoil be- 
fore him, a single man, with a proud look, and a bold step, sad, but not prostrate ; 
he was wrapped in the gray riding-coat ; he carried in his hand the hat of the 
Little Corporal ; a single month of these misfortunes had aged him more than 
ten battles would have done. His old soldiers, finding him so great in adversity, 
were profoundly affected, and could not understand, poor heroes ! how and why 
the emperor and they were thus separated — they, who were always the great 
army ; he, who was always the emperor. A well-known voice aroused them 
from their stupor. 

" Soldiers," said he to them, " I bid you adieu. During the forty years that 
we have been together, I have been pleased with you, I have always found you 
in the path of honor !" After which, he embraced the eagles, and reascended, 
with a firm and tranquil step, that same staircase of Fontainebleau, now laden 
with flowers. 

Thus they separated, in that same spot, the emperor and the great army, to 
go and die, here and there, all in the same sadness, in the same glory, in the 
same destitution. 

But let us penetrate into the palace of so many absolute monarchs, only we 
must take care to have with us the thread of Ariadne ; for, once entered there, 
you will soon lose yourself: it is the most wonderful labyrinth that ever aston- 
ished human imagination. There is nothing but vast galleries, immense saloons, 
amphitheatres, giants" staircases, mysterious passages, sweet retreats concealed 
in the wall, balconies of marble and bronze. All times, all places, all arts, all 
monarchs are represented within these walls. The sixteenth century has tlirown 
there all its caprices and all its poetry ; Henry IV. and Louis XIII. have left 
upon the walls their impression, at once Italian and French ; Louis XIV. car- 
ried within them his royal and budding grandeur ; the Emperor Napoleon came 
here to await the Emperess Maria Louisa of Austria, who allied him to the kings 
of Europe, while separating him from the people of France. But such was the 
majesty of this place, that each of the powers who passed through it, were it 
only for a day, felt himself obhged to add a new magnificence to these splen- 
dors. Such a king, in order to signalize his visit to Fontainebleau, built a whole 
palace by way of continuation to the primitive palaces ; such another erected a 
church ; the third a theatre, or at least a gallery ; a fourth had barely time to 



THE CHATEAU — ABDICATION OF NAPOLEON — GREAT CHANGES. 81 

engrave there his name and his cipher, after which he was carried away by the 
tempest ; his name has been effiiced by the whitewasher. 

Whatever you may say, and whatever Louis Philippe may do, there is in 
Versailles but one single master, I had almost said but oue single divinity. King 
Louis XIV. On the contrary, in the palace of Fontainebleau, all kind of asso- 
ciations mingle and blend with each other. Not far from the apartment of the 
sovereign pontiif, dragged there from the midst of pontifical Rome by the most 
unworthy abuse of power, on the site of the gallerie des Cerfs, where Monal- 
deschi was assassinated — in a retired corner, where she .fled even the light of 
heaven — Madame de Maintenon had dug herself a retreat, which you may now 
see completely furnished and restored. There is violence in these walls, there 
is poetry, there is love ; above all, there are marriages. You would in vain seek 
throughout this palace some corner which has not sheltered a crowned or an 
uncrowned head ; there is scarcely a bed which has not been a bed of death. In 
the king's apartment, the most indifferent stop before a wretched mahogany 
working-table, which would be worth about fifteen francs if it was bought on 
credit at a second-hand furniture-shop ; and yet no one approaches it without 
respect ; for it was upon this table that the abdication of the emperor was signed. 
The mahogany still bears the mark of a penknife, which the ex-master of the 
world impressed, as the expiring lion imprints the earth with his failing paw. 
This table is placed near a window, the brilliant locks of which were made by 
King Louis XVI. This very room, which resembles a hortus siccus, so richly 
are the walls laden with all the plants of the French Flora., was inhabited by 
Catherine de Medicis. By the side of this room, Napoleon caused a gallery to 
be built, in honor of Maria Louisa. Thus are blended so many different re- 
membrances, so many grandeurs, and so many misfortunes. In this admirable 
confusion of all kinds of royalty and all kinds of greatness, the philosopher sets 
himself to dream : he asks himself if it was worth while to lavish so many emo- 
tions, and often so much genius, to add barely one dust to all these dusts, one 
vanity to these lamentable vanities. The poet, on the other hand, reanimates, 
by means of imagination and thought — which are the two greatest architects 
of this world — all these ruined stones ; he brings noise into this silence, the 
crowd into these solitudes. At his word, suddenly are illuminated, one after the 
other, those vast galleries ; and arise from their nothingness all the ages which have 
prayed, which have loved, which have suffered, which have died within these 
walls. Silence ! behold them ! They reappear in their most beauteous attire, 
with their most pompous retinues ; they come, to pass in these cherished 
places, one more day of feasting and glory, of pleasure and love. What is easi- 
er, if you have a little enthusiasm in your head and a little youth in your heart, 
than to reanimate all this vanished history ? 

Do you not already see, through the gothic windows of the gallery of Fran- 
cis I., that knight-king presiding at the brilliant fetes, — and at the head of the 
staircase, the sombre figure of Napoleon setting out for his exile in the island of 
Elba ? Francis I. and Napoleon Bonaparte, — these are in fact the two masters 
of the palace of Fontainebleau, these are the two phantoms who return most 
frequently to these walls, to these galleries, to these thousand silent chambers ; 
and then, how astonished must the king and the emperor be, to find all their 
work erect I For so long a time their palace had been in ruins ! the walls sunk 
upon themselves, the painted ceilings were hanging in tatters ; the arms of so 
many kings had been so often erased, restored, and again erased, upon the stone, 
that it was pierced through ; the eagles had been so rudely hunted, so many 
fleurs-de-lis had been torn down, so many emblems had been broken, so many 
loving ciphers had been effaced, that among all this pitiless destruction it was 
impossible to find anything perfect — at most there were walls without names, al- 
tars without incense, boudoirs without perfume, saloons without ornaments, 
empty frames, broken thrones, all kinds of royal things shamefully plundered, 
spoiled, tarnished, annihilated. The shades of the ancient masters of Fontaine- 
bleau walked sadly among these lamentable ruins, and the more years rolled 
upon years, the more ruins became heaped upon ruins. But at the present 

6 



82 FRANCIS I. AND NAPOIiEON — AMBITION OF LOUIS PHILIPPE. 

day, thanks to the same thoughtful foresight which has raised the palace of Ver- 
sailles, — in Fontainebleau now repaired and saved, everything is revived : the 
tottering foundations are again settled, the staircases crushed by so many passing 
grandeurs are re-established upon their bases, the statues lying upon the ground 
again ascend their pedestals, the portraits return into their frames, the old plas- 
ter of the saloons is driven away like dust, and behind this ignoble coat reappear, 
in their new brilliancy, the chefs d'ceuvre of three centuries. It is done ; the 
restoration of the monument is complete, within and without ; the ceilings are 
renewed like the walls ; the deal doors have given place to others made of oak : 
the painted paper vanishes, and leaves room for the historical painting ; echo 
repeats anew the sonorous names of former days ; the cellars are again filled, 
and also the wood-houses ; velvet and gilding are restored to the furniture ; the 
worms regret their prey ; the gothic windows are replaced in the window frames ; 
the chimneys which had fallen down are built up again ; with the minute care 
and the exact patience of the antiquarian, the slightest details are found of that 
exquisite sculpture which changed wood into a masterpiece, stone into lace, 
marble into heroes and beautiful women. The mosaic reappeared always young 
and brilliant, and burst forth fresher than ever, from beneath the oak floor which 
covered it like a tomb. Everywhere, from the top to the bottom of these vast 
walls, the same attentive and repairing hand has been carried ; everywhere again 
shone forth gold, paint, enamel, marble, stone, shell, ivory, silver, wool, bronze. 
This palace of Fontainebleau, — not ten years ago, — was a desolate dwelling, 
abandoned to every wind of heaven ; to-day it is a magnificent palace, worthy 
of the greatest: kings. Thus the astonishment is immense among the royal 
shadows. " Who then has repaired my galleries?" cries Francis I. ; " glory to 
him ! he has replaced upon the walls my arms and the cipher of n)y beautiful 
mistress."—" Who then has raised again the staircase of Fontainebleau, and 
preserved even the shghtest traces of my departure?" cries the emperor: "glory 
to him! he has no fear of eagles or recollections, any more than of the standards 
of the great army." Thus talk together these tranquillized shades. At the 
same time, at the hour of midnight, reappear, light as happy shadows, all the 
ladies who reigned for a day in these royal dwellings. They glide gently upon 
these soft carpets ; they take their seats upon the restored thrones ; they rest 
upon the regilded sofas ; they smile at their own beauty in these Venetian 
glasses, which erstwhile reflected them so fair and so beautiful ; they dance in 
chorus beneath these arched roofs, where everything recalls to them former 
days. What a great and beautiful task has this head of a dynasty, in fact, im- 
posed upon himself! To save the ruins, to save the glories, to save the remem- 
brances of his country ; to aspire rather to the title of preserver than of founder; 
to erect little, but to preserve all ; to be prouder of drawing a palace from its 
ruin than of commencing it, and then leaving it imperfect at death; to turn to 
advantage, to restore to all their primitive brilliancy, all the luxury, all the en- 
terprises, all the follies, all the royal expenditure of three centuries ; thus to ar- 
rive at the most admirable result which ever crowned the work of the greatest 
architects, that is to say, to finish all the monuments which are begun ; the same 
day, to restore to the column its emperor, Louis XIV., to Versailles, Francis 
I. to Fontainebleau, mademoiselle to the chateau d'Eu, and the king to the 
Tuilleries ; — and on the morrow to aspire, by way of rest, to the glory of finish- 
ing the Louvre; — and all these incredible efforts, all these enterprises, superin- 
tended in person, all this in the midst of clashing parties, of tumult, of civil 
war, of disorder, beneath the poignard of the assassin, — this is what may be 
called to design and to execute ! 

But you must hurry on, in spite of your admiration. To traverse the palace 
of Fontainebleau is a whole journey. "But," say you, "let me examine these 
entwined ciphers, Henry II. and Diana of Valentino is; let me study the em- 
blems of this chimney-piece of the most beautiful ionic order, mingled with 
garlands, festoons, devices, clever inventions of Philibert Delorme's and Guil- 
ilaume Rondelet's ;" — you must proceed, you must pursue your route without 
stopping at each vision. In the gallery of Francis I., just as in the gallery of 



FOREST OF FONTAINEBLEAU — THE PvOCHE-qUl-PLEURE. 83 

Henry II., you will find the same Priraaticcio, not only the great painter, but 
also the great sculptor. In decoration, painting must not be abandoned to itself; 
if you wish it to produce all its effect, it must be accompanied by sculpture. It 
is sculpture which gives relief, that is to say, motion and life, to the master- 
pieces of the painters. It completes, it forms an excellent accompaniment to 
painting ; it augments its power and grace. From this intimate union of two 
great arts which so wonderfully accord with each other, has resulted that gal- 
lery, which must have been the wonder of the sixteenth century, of all the 
splendors of which it is an admirable summary. 

If you understand what you are about, you will not leave Fontainebleau with- 
out going through the forest, which is one of the most beautiful and most pic- 
turesque in France. 

You ought to see the forest of Fontainebleau in the morning at a very early 
hour, when the bird sings, when the sun shines, when all the points of view ex- 
tend themselves to infinity before your delighted eyes, when all these stones 
heaped up beneath these aged trees take a thousand fantastic forms, and give to 
the forest, the appearance of the plain on which the Titans fought against 
heaven. The forest of Fontainebleau is full of mystery, of noises, of by-ways, 
of light, of obscurity ; there are profound caverns, there are little paths which 
sweetly wind beneath the shade, upon the flowery turf; there are waves of sand 
which escape from the half-opened rock, there is a drop of dew, which falls with 
a soft murmur from an inert hill ; there are a thousand strange forms, as there 
must have been many on the earth after the deluge, when the waters had disfig- 
ured, at pleasure, everything in creation ; at each step you take in these mysteries 
you meet some of these novelties, as old as the world, but the effect of 
which is all-powerful. The artists, the poets, the romancers, the lovers — those 
great poets — have, from time immemorial, made the forest of Fontainebleau, 
the empire of their dreams. It is composed of nearly forty thousand acres of 
ancient and majestic trees; it is bounded on the west by the Seine, on the south 
by the Canal de Briare, and is no less than twenty-eight leagues in circumfer- 
ence. 

In the midst of this admirable confusion of rocks, and lawns, and old oaks, 
several of which are called Saint Louis, Charlemagne, or Clovis ; in the thick 
groves, at the bottom of these deep defiles, in the depth of these caverns, on the 
summit of these aerial palaces ; far from the Seine which sparkles at a distance, 
or on its very borders ; beneath the shadow of the pines or the birch-trees, the 
maple or the beech, the firs or the elms ; upon the heath, among the rose-trees, 
on the moss or the gravel ; by the cry of the ravens, the joyous songs of the 
lark, the plaintive notes of the nightingale; whether the adder displays in the 
sun its varied colors, or whether the deer vanishes with a bound, after having 
thrown upon you one animated and curious glance — do not forget to seek the 
favorite sites of the princes and poets, the famous rocks, the repos de chasse, the 
very sight of which recalls so many old legends. There is a certain art in vis- 
iting Fontainebleau, without which, all is chance and confusion. Go then, step 
by step, from the Table du Roi to the vallee de la Selle, from the rocher de Saint 
Germain to the mare aux Eves, from the carre-four de Belle Vue to the Gorge 
du Loup. Among all these magnificent horrors, covered with beautiful shad- 
ow, do not fail to visit Franchard, the most romantic of all these picturesque 
valleys. At Franchard, they will tell you legends, they will show you the ruins 
of a monastery; you will hear the history of the monks ; then by coasting a lit- 
tle lake — upon which floats a young oak of some twenty years of age, overturn- 
ed by the wind, you will soon behold with delight, the Roche-qui-pleure. 

The Roche-qui-pleure is a hill naturally placed among several others of smal- 
ler height; around it, all is desolation, silence, and aridity; you feel thirsty, at 
the mere fact of finding yourself upon these sands, among these rocks, beneath 
this burning sun. But listen ; do you hear the silvery sound of a drop of wa- 
ter, which falls from the sky into a nacre-shell ? It is strange — this pearl which 
detaches itself from this vast rock, this drop of pure water which falls with a 
murmur from this immense granite ! At all times, in all seasons, beneath the 



84 CELEBRATED ROCKS SAINT CLOUD FRANKLIN. 

hottest sun, in the coldest winter, the same rock eternally gives the same drop 
of pure and unalterable water, never more, never less. There are still, among 
the renowned places, the Mont de Henri IV., the Rocher d^Aran, the Mont Ai- 
gu, the Ventes de la Reine, the Erables, the IWble du Grand Veneur ; the 
spectre huntsman leads the midnight chase to the barking of his ghostly dogs ; 
the Grande Taille, the Village d^Aron, the Pressoirs du Roi, the Bouquet du 
Roi, Henry IV. et Sully, two old oaks admirable among all the oaks, and the 
Rocher des Deux Sceurs. Oh 1 what terrible and touching histories, stories of 
hunting and of love, of treason and of vengeance, this aged forest has covered 
with its shadow, an ancient, silent, profound shadow, and which is reached by no 
other noise than the stag braying, the bird singing, the horn resounding through 
the wood. And yet, what I prefer for the beauty of the landscape, is the lovely 
spot which I visited yesterday. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

SAINT CLOUD. 

This lovely spot, which I prefer even to the stately pile of the palace of Fon- 
tainebleau, is the park of Saint Cloud, which is overlooked by the heights of 
Bellevue. The very journey from Paris to Saint Cloud is a true fete. Saint 
Cloud is at the gates of Paris ; you may go there by traversing the Bois de Bou- 
logne with its marvellous paths. If you wish to do it properly, you will take 
the baiTier of Versailles, and ascend the gentle acclivity which leads you to the 
village of Passy — Passy, an American city — the hospitable hamlet which Frank- 
lin chose, for the sojourn which he made in Paris, at the time of the universal 
enthusiasm. It was a strange thing to see this man, who was the ambassador 
of a revolution, walking without sword, without embroidery, without powder, 
without ruffles, amid the crowd of the courtiers of the king of France. This 
man was good sense suddenly let loose in the midst of poetry ; he was the citi- 
zen, who treated on terms of equality — and for their good — with all the great 
lords of this worm-eaten royalty. Ah ! if these improvident men had but lis- 
tened to the advice of the American printer ; if they had but known how to 
read that simple book, Poor Packard, the revolution which was advancing with 
a giant's step, would not have surprised them in all the disorder and in all the 
misery of ruin and bankruptcy ! This new comer from America would have 
taught the friends of King Louis XVI., the flatterers of King Louis XV., that 
great word which comprehends the life of nations and men — foresight. Passy 
remembers Franklin ; one fine street in this beautiful village is called the rue 
Franklin. They still show the elevated esplanade, from the summit of which 
our compatriot drew the lightning from heaven, as an aspiring epigraph says, 
Eripuit ccelo fulmen ! As for having torn the sceptre from tyrants, scepirwjji^we 
tyrannis, Franklin had no such ambition ; and if by tyrant, the Latin verse in- 
tended the good King Louis XVI., the Latin verse would praise Franklin for 
an action which would have horrified that honest, kind, worthy man, who was 
equally incapable of cowardice and cruelty. Passy remembers the time when 
it was the rendezvous of all the fashionable world, and of the most fashionable 
world. In the simple view of these beautiful houses, these vast gardens, all this 
exterior decoration, it is easy to find vestiges of 1730 and some following years. 
More than one little house, at the present day honestly inhabited, was built up- 
on the edge of the wood by King Louis XV., for some favorite of the moment. 
From Versailles, the good sire came across the fields ; and once within the 



LA MUETTE MADAME DE GENLIS. 85 

small, discreet, gallant house of Mademoiselle de Romans for instance, the 
mother of the AbbS de Bourbon, he forgot the annoyances of that royalty of 
France, which is so heavy when it is idle, and which felt itself conquered and 
surpassed by an irresistible force. I have seen this house which formerly be- 
longed to Mademoiselle de Romans ; the trees which the king planted have now 
become magnificent ; the house is of simple and elegant appearance, but — and 
nothing can be more reasonable — this house, with which the king of France 
was contented, has been embellished, enlarged, and worthily finished by a good 
citizen of Paris. In the dining-room, it has more than once happened, that 
Louis XV., urged to it by the vivacity of the discourse, was obliged to strike 
upon the table, saying, " The king, gentlemen!'''' Suddenly, each one would 
return to the attitude of respect. Another time in a moment of good humor — and 
1 must own that M. de Richelieu had at that instant more wit than Voltaire — 
Louis XV. gave a box on the ear to M. de Richelieu, who was seated at his 
right hand. He was certainly in a delicate position. What should he do ? 
how should he behave? how prevent himself from being vexed and looking red? 
and on the other hand, how receive such an affront without complaining ? M. 
de Richelieu, recovered from his astonishment, and gave the blow to his next 
neighbor, saying " The king loishes it to pass round .'" The blow passed ; but 
I have yet to understand how the gentleman, who was seated on the king's left 
hand, extricated himself from the difficulty. 

Quite at the end of the Grand Rue of Passy, La Muette (another erection of 
King Louis XV., but this time for the reigning mistress, Madame de Pompa- 
dour) throws its aged shadow across the path ; it is the sweetest spot in the 
world. The park is laid out with wonderful ingenuity ; the garden is blended 
with the wood ; the chateau is built with the ornamental rapture of the archi- 
tects of former days. In this house, long resided, like a great lord as he was, 
amid the finest statues and most excellent chefs d'oeuvre of painting, the cele- 
brated M. Erard. He was a great artist and a clever connoisseur ; he invented 
in France, and indeed throughout Europe, the piano — that wonderful instru- 
ment to which we owe so many masterpieces, and which has so happily served 
the genius of that poet named Franz-Liztz. You salute La Muette as you 
pass, and still going by the wood, you regain the brink of the water. Proceed 
a little at hazard, as you must, if you would see everything ; look at Mount 
Valerien — formerly it was a burial-ground, now it is a fortress. Some of the 
noble dead interred there, were obliged to be removed to the cemetery of Pere 
la Chaise, like all the dead of the present generation. There, nevertheless, re- 
posed till the end of the world (at least, she believed so), the most turbulent and 
most restless woman of this century, which is nevertheless the century of tur- 
bulent women — Madame de Genlis. Did she sufficiently display, in her miser- 
able fashion, her beauty, her wit, her intelligence, her style, her talent? Has 
she been wandering enough, truant enough, sufficiently beaten by all the blows 
of misfortune ? Did she have enough dangerous connexions, and among so 
many foolish things, has she left one delightful, little chef d'oeuvre — Made- 
moiselle de Clermont ? She died in time, before the Duke of Orleans, whose 
governess she had been, ascended the throne of France. This was one of the 
blessings of his majesty King Louis Philippe, to be delivered from the dotage of 
this good woman, who would have become insupportable in his present elevated 
rank. 

A beautiful open-work iron bridge, light and aerial, crosses the Seine ; an easy 
route will conduct you to Saint Cloud — Saint Cloud ready-dressed and adorned, 
and filled with wandering melodies. The village displays itself upon the benev- 
olent height ; the proud Seine bounds at a distance. The park is a chef d'oeuvre 
of art, seconded by every natural elegance ; the chateau, placed between two 
terraces, between two avenues, presides over this collection of meadows, of ver- 
dure, of lawn, of basins. But, does it not seem to you that suddenly the moon 
is covered with a cloud ? It is night, the autumn wind howls through the trees, 
the yellow leaves are hurled even to the sky, a lamentable noise fills the melan- 
choly forest. Oh the deserted terrace, you may distinguish, by the dim light 



86 MARIE ANTOINETTE AND MIRABEAU VILLE d'AVRAT. 

which proceeds from the stormy heavens, a man walking, who is wrapped in a 
black cloak ; his step is agitated, his look is restless, his gesture is full of pity ; 
he waits, but like a person who wishes the appointed hour would not come so 
quickly ; he waits like one who is afraid of his own triumph. Suddenly, at a 
certain hour of the night, half opens the door of that house from which royalty 
is already exiled ; from this half-opened door issues a woman of noble appear- 
ance; her countenance is pale, her forehead is clear; by her step, by her cour- 
age, you may recognise a queen ! It is the queen, and the man who waits for 
her is Mirabeaii ! The tribune throws himself at the knees of this conquered 
majesty ; he dares not touch with his hands, he dares not touch with his lips, 
the hand which is extended toward him ! He asks pardon, he implores forgive- 
ness ! Now he can understand all the violence of the blows which he has given 
to this monarchy of so many centuries' duration ! The queen raise's Mirabeau, 
and without ostentation, without disguise, without pride, she says to him, " Save 
us /" Then, in the mind of this fiery democrat, who had violently thrown down 
every obstacle which opposed itself to his greatness, was wrought one of those- 
miracles which would have saved a less desperate party : the gentleman shone 
out again from beneath the tribune ; the draper gave place to the Count de Mi- 
rabeau. The evil days of his turbulent youth disappeared from his remem- 
brance and his reproaches ! The Fort de Joux and the Chateau de Vincennes, 
and all the lettres de cachet, and all the insults formerly offered him, have no 
longer any power over this reconciled mind ; these lamentable recollections are 
effaced at the first view of the queen of France ; she is a queen, she is a wo- 
man, she is a mother, and she supplicates ! This time, Marie Antoinette was 
triumphant — Mirabeau was conquered. The tribune quitted the terrace of 
Saint Cloud resolved to save the throne of Louis XVI. . . . But alas ! it was no 
longer possible, the revolution had commenced its progress ; in vain was it for 
man to attempt to stop it ; it must absolutely proceed, and draw with it the 
whole of France into this bottomless abyss. For having wished to resist the 
torrent raised by his own eloquence, Mirabeau was himself overwhelmed in this 
flood of violence and murder. Bring about revolutions then, to satisfy your 
own vengeance ! The revolution, as it passes on, crushes you — as proud of do- 
ing so, as was the first Brutus of sending his son to death. 

A fine avenue of beech-trees planted by Louis XlV.'s own son, that unworthy 
pupil of Bossuet, will conduct you to a charming spot named Ville d'Avray. 
Ville d'Avray is the peaceful village abandoned to its own good nature : here 
you will find no kings, no princes, no great lords ; but simply rich bankers and 
a {ew clever artists, who do not like to lose sight of their beloved city. One of 
the dearest romancers of France — a clever man, a subtle observer, capricious, 
fantastical, unequal, he who, next to M. Scribe, has contributed most to the 
amusement of his own epoch — has built himself a picturesque cabin on the line 
of the railroad, which travellers point out to each other as they pass. King 
Charles X. hunted by choice at Ville d'Avray, and in this hunt he displayed all 
his royal magnificence. The dauphiness, a pious woman among all the pious, 
had an estate at Ville d'Avray. To her we owe that beautiful road which sur- 
rounds the whole neighboring country. On the other side of the same hill, the 
Chateau de Bellevue formerly raised its delightful terrace. There lived, in the 
midst of the villagers who blessed them, mesdames the sisters of King Louis 
XV., with their humble virtues ! How long their earnest prayers arrested the 
anger of which the heavens were full ! The Valley de Fleury fills all the op- 
posite space with its magnificence. But we must certainly have more than one 
day to contemplate these mild aspects, to tell you all the beautiful spots in this 
vast forest, and what dehghtful houses the forest protects with its shadow. 
Picture to yourself an immense ocean of verdure and of flowers, mingled with 
cries of joy and sweet songs. But what am I about ? I had almost forgotten 
to remind you of the Lantern of Diogenes, placed at the top of an obelisk erect- 
ed for that purpose by order of Napoleon, in one of the finest spots in the park. 
A spiral staircase leads you to the summit, whence you may obtain a varied and 
magnificent view. This lantern — which during the imperial govemmentj was 



-PARK OF SAINT CLOUD — THE JULY FETES. 87 

always lighted, when the council was sitting at Saint Cloud — is now a place of 
rendezvous for parties of pleasure, who meet again there, after straying in the 
plantations. 

When evening comes the same rural labyrinth insensibly leads you back to 
your point of departure — the park of Saint Cloud — in good time, the sun is now 
less powerful. The oldest trees form a long, principal alley, other centenary 
trees fill the space. The Parisians have arrived, and have already spread be- 
neath the yoke elms ; the cries were never more joyous, the groves never more 
thronged : the road is filled, the steamboat brings each hour its lovely cargo of 
young men and girls. Listen! the music is beginning! It is the ball, always 
the ball, which gives the signal. Before long, and when the shades of night are 
really fallen, a thousand lights of all colors will invade the park of Saint Cloud. 
The bird awoke amid the foliage, and thinking it is day, will commence his 
morning hymn, soon interrupted by the sound of the morning watch, recalling 
the dragoons to the neighboring baiTacks. Still later, a brilliant firework will 
burst in the heated air. Without fireworks, there can be no good fete for the 
Parisian. The country is at peace, he is engaged in making his fortune, he asks 
nothing but to live and die in this happy calm — but to die a long time hence ; 
and yet, gunpowder always pleases him ; he loves its blaze, he loves its noise, its 
smell, and even its smoke ; he looks at the powder burning, he enjoys it with all 
his heart; he dreams the rest, while singing Beranger's songs ! 

Alas ! in these same spots filled with the popular wave, not one of these un^ 
grateful men remembers the good king Charles and the little royal infant, whose 
anniversary, in bygone days, filled the park of Saint Cloud with so much joy ; 
and this long alley, in which walked with a silent step, a gun upon his shoulder, 
poetry in his forehead, and love in his heart, a life-guard who called himself 
Alphonse de Lamartine — the last Bourbon guarded by the last poet of France j 
Oh vanity ! 



CHAPTER XIV. 

THE JULY FETES. 



Ungrateful people ! they forget everything, except to be punctual at the 
fetes that are given to them. During the thirteen years since the people 
triumphed in July, almost every year has brought back to them its three days of 
idleness, of relaxation, of illuminations, of wrestlings and plays, in the vast space 
of the Champs Elysees. It is a sight worth witnessing, a whole people aban- 
doned to joy. The Mat de Cocagne entices, with its bait, the most terrible and 
the most active ambitions ; the difficulty is, to seek, at the top of a greasy pole, 
the present of the city of Paris ; a gold watch, a silver plate, a bracelet. The 
pole is surrounded, by vast numbers from Paris, and, above all, from the fabourgs, 
who are eager for the prize. The push, they jostle, they attack each other ; 
they cry, they look, they blame, they approve. The crowd, with extended 
necks, endeavor to find out who will be the victor in the game. Bets are laid, at 
the very foot of the tree ; partnership societies are formed. " If I have the 
watch, you shall have your share of it ! If you get the silver plate, we will 
melt it, and what is better, we will drink it together! it is agreed !" So that, no 
sooner is it gained, than the national recompense is carried in great triumph, to 
the silversmith of the city, a true Florentine chaser of the best ages — a great 
artist learned in the art of the sculptors. Of him it may be said, Materiam su^ 
perebat opus (the manner is yet more excellent than the matter) ; in a word, it is 
Froment Meurice, the admirable goldsmith of whom I speak. «' I have won ! 



88 THE PARISIAN ON THE SEINE BEAUMARCHAIS. 

I have won!" cry the joyous bandits, bringing the appearance of the watch or 
the casket of the plate, " I have won! buy my watch !" And Froment Meurice 
buys the watch, the same watch which has been used nearly thirteen years, 
which is sold and gained, at least twice per annum, to the great joy of the Paris- 
ians. Good people! how small a thing is sufficient to amuse them ! 

Another delight of these three days is the jousts upon the water. The Pa- 
risian loves his river, he knows it by heart ; his great enjoyment is to keep on 
the borders of the Seine, a little canoe painted green, which goes by oar and 
sail, until a sudden squall capsizes the vessel, and those who are in it, like a true 
John Bart. Besides, the river is a fine theatre, well placed in the midst of the 
city, between two magnificent quays. The actors, lightly clad, are so happy 
and proud at having so many looks turned upon their tricks of skill and strength. 
In all justice it must be owned, that upon the water, a leathern cap on his head 
and an oar in his hand, the Parisian is the most awkward of mortals ; but this is 
so much the better, if the awkwardness causes bursts of laughter. As for me, 1 
love all this noise, all this motion, all this crowd ; these martial exercises — these 
combats between Arabs and French tumblers, upon the trestles — these learned 
dogs, these two-headed monsters, these dwarfs, these giants, these ostlers, that 
woman who plays with a lion like the widow of Androcles. But then after these 
turbulent enjoyments, it is very sweet again to find a little calm repose and silence ! 
The crowd have slowly started toward the Champs de Mars, to the barrier de 
Vincennes, in order to be present at the double fireworks ; the dome of the In- 
valids sparkles from afar, beneath the last beams of day. Let us leave the 
crowd, and remain alone to look, to listen, to recollect ourselves, to dream. 

In this quiet and happy evening meditation, I crossed the whole inhabited 
space which separates the Arc de Triomphe from the place de la Bastille. The 
spot is deserted, and awaits future houses. There formerly rose, sunounded by 
his vast gardens, the sudden palace of that revolutionaiy, so famous for wit, 
malice, and eloquence, called Beaumarchais. When he saw that every one 
was working, with mind and hands, in order thoroughly to overturn that old 
French society, which has now become something less than a dream to us, he 
set about attacking it, not by wit, like Voltaire, but by sarcasm, by irony, by 
license, summoning to the aid of his Figaro, which was rebellious like him- 
self, the most wretched women, children more than precocious, and boudoir 
scenes, which he represented to take place beneath large flowering chestnut- 
trees. He had thus assisted, by his constant sneer, in the ruin of everything. 
And, at last, one fine day, when the triumphant people carried away that old 
Bastille, which was worm-eaten and gaping on all sides, the abominable parent 
of Figaro laid out for himself, upon the site of the Bastille, English gardens, 
kiosks, grottoes, cottages, murmuring cascades, a gilded hotel — a second Bas- 
tille in which he enclosed himself with the wornout remains of his wit — an 
artillery disordered and spiked in every direction. In general I know nothing 
more respectable, than the old age of great men ; glory, at its setting, is tinged 
with a beautiful reflection which renders it more serene and more imposing. 
The white hair shades so well the noble forehead, which sixty years of courage, 
of virtue, and of genius, have not entirely wrinkled ; but an old punster, who 
makes the most cruel puns ; an old actor who has taken even the greatest 
part ; a clever pamphleteer; a revolutionary following in the track of others, 
out of breath, wounded, shrivelled, who, with cool effrontery, comes to place 
himself upon the ruins of the Bastille, and who, in its wrecks, still echoing 
the groans and the tears of the miserable, arranges for himself a pretty little 
retreat, that he may die more at his ease — this is, in truth, a pitiable sight. 

Happily, the house of Master Caron de Beaumarchais has disappeared from 
this place. These frivolous gardens, planted vs^ith old scentless roses, torn from 
the fifth act of the Marriage of Figaro, have partially opened, to form an outlet 
for the muddy waters of a horrible canal, which terminates in a ditch. Upon 
this canal is transported, each night, the filth of the Parisian city ; it would be 
impossible to find a more just emblem of that false mind of the end of last cen- 



DESTRUCTION OF THE BASTILLE MONUMENT OF JULY. 89 

tury, laden with pestilence, famine, tumult, and conspiracies, and which led, not 
to a ditch, but to the scaffold. 

However, the site of this funeral city, inhabited by so many wretched crea- 
tures, has not been entirely covered ; a small part of it has remained unoccupied, 
doubtless in order that one day, in speaking of the Bastille, the child of the fau- 
bourg may be able to stamp his foot and say, " It was here /" When the people of 
1789 had, in their play, overthrown, with one heave, these walls which had been 
undermined by the deeds of darkness committed within them, they returned 
home, singing, satisfied with their day, and the next morning were very much 
astonished when they heard the powerful voice of Mirabeau telling them with 
every kind of admiration and praise, that they had, on the evening before, per- 
formed an heroic action. The truth is, that the people, in their good sense, 
knew very well that they had not overthrown the Bastille ; they had found it 
already torn down ; they had but dispersed, here and there, the now useless 
stones. Happily, the people do not understand effecting revolutions ; at most, 
they are useful in finishing them, and in that case, they go to it with no light 
hand, and in the twinkling of an eye, nothing would have remained of the Bastille 
but its site ; all the rest would have fled like the dust which the wind drives be- 
fore it, on the approach of a storm. 

By the beautiful light which the moon gave, on the evening of which I speak, 
I had the very natural curiosity to penetrate within the boards which still sur- 
rounded this court of the vanished Bastille. The door, which is rarely closed, 
was half open ; I entered, without difficulty, this melancholy, empty enclosure, 
and found that I could see, at my leisure, the immense scaffolding of the column 
of July, the gaping air-hole of its foundations boldly thrown so as to support the 
weight of this bronze, the vaults doomed to reunite all the heroes who fell 
during the three days. At the summit of the column, even then, shone the 
Gallic cock, with dismantled claws, and wings awkwardly extended. Poor ani- 
mal ! vigilant in the poultry-yard, but ill at ease as soon as he is beyond his own 
domains. They wished to make him play an heroic part for which he is by no 
means calculated ; they have taken him from his seraglio to place him at the 
head of armed battalions. 

Within this silent enclosure arose a boarded cabin, which disappeared the very 
day on which the monument of July was inaugurated. The cabin was silent. 
The bird slept in his cage, suspended at this humble window. 

The mignionette of the little garden shed its sweetest odors. In the distance, 
willows — not weeping-willows — waved their silvery foliage in the light whisper of 
the breeze. No one would ever have imagined that on this place had stood that 
iron prison, without heart and without sun, of which King Louis XI. was so 
proud — the Bastille ! 

1 was pondering, in the shade, I scarcely know what, when I perceived that I 
was not alone. A man was there, an old man, seated, with a melancholy look, 
at the foot of this gigantic shadow. He appeared to be plunged in profound 
grief; indeed, I never saw any one more afiSicted. " Sir," said he to me, after 
the first compliments, " you see before you a poor man, whom the last revolu- 
tion has driven without pity from his estate. They say, sir, that our crumbling 
society holds now only by one thread, property ; and yet I, the incontestably le- 
gitimate proprietor of this house, this garden, this elephant, formerly so proud, 
now humbled and reduced like his master. I am exiled; they do not wait until 
I am dead ; they say to me, 'Begone !' They destroy the colossus of which I 
have been the faithful guardian by day and by night ; I shall not sui-vive it, sir." 
As he said these words, large drops fell from his eyes. There is no sight so af- 
fecting as that of an old man in tears, and I was touched with pity for him. 

When he had wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, " I wish you," 
said he, "to know my history, in order that you may some day relate it. I am 
far from being one of the conquerors of the Bastille. The day on which it was 
taken, I passed, without thinking of any harm. Almost before I had time to 
turn my head, the monument was reduced to powder, and the people had left, 



9ft HISTORY OF AN OLD MAN — PHANTOMS OF THE BASTILLE. 

carrying with them, as a trophy, some unhappy beings taken from this profound 
darkness. 

" It was night ; the moon hghted up this freshly-raised hill, nearly as it illu- 
mines it at the present moment. It was very late to return that evening to my 
poor house. I arranged myself as I best could, to sleep upon the site of some 
ruined cell, and never before, I imagine, had the night been so beautiful in one 
of these dungeons. Everything sang around me; the curious stars were grouped 
together in the sky ; you would have said they had appointed a rendezvous above, 
to ascertain what was passing below. From the bosom of these half-opened 
depths exhaled, never more to return, the many groans and sighs, the many blas- 
phemies and miseries, and the profound darkness which this spot had enclosed. 
The mild rays of the moon glided slowly through these benevolent crevices, like 
hope, when it enters the heart of man. This was beautiful and poetic ; it was 
like a grateful prayer, like a Te Deuni murmured in a low voice, something pious 
and sacred ascending from between these overturned stones. 

" At midnight, the hour for phantoms, I saw all this solitude animated ; the 
countless heroes of this funeral drama placed themselves before me in all kinds 
of attitudes. The rebellious professor implored the forgiveness of God in his own 
way, striking his breast in silence. The orator spoke aloud of liberty and tyr- 
anny ; the poet sinpmoned the people to arms. I heard resounding, in the most 
melancholy tones, the sweetest names of our history : it was a strange mingling 
of iron chains and velvet robes, a singular confusion of blue cordons and swords, 
and newly-made pens. At the summit of the towers which had not yet entirely 
fallen, walked, with crossed arms, the many beautiful ladies, and the many brave 
knights, of whom old age — precocious within these walls — had taken possession, 
when they had seen little more than twenty years, and without their ever having 
made use of those gilded hours of youth which nothing can replace. On the 
platform promenaded the old governor, with his hand upon his sabre ; he was 
the chief prisoner in this world of captives. 

" Sir, on that night, the chamber of torture was yet standing, and you might 
have seen, through the yawning crevice, the executioners heating their instru- 
ments in the furnace. Oh what a scene was presented on this first night of the 
unveiled Bastille I what funeral songs ! what joyful exclamations ! what an in- 
effable Te Deum ! what a dreadful JDe Profundis ! 

" The next morning, when I roused from this half-waking dream, I thought 
the people would return to take possession of their conquest ; but they did not 
come ; they had so much to do, so much to see, so much to bring about, that 
I remained the absolute master of the demolished Bastille. There I installed 
myself as well as I knew how ; with my own hands I built this little cabin, and 
it was the first time that the stone of dungeons had served to construct so sweet 
an asylum. There were some little yellow flowers which had had the courage 
to grow upon these frightful walls ; I gathered their seed, and you see how they 
have flourished ; the birds of some prisoners, less unhappy than their compan- 
ions, and not wishing for the liberty which the people had given them, as if they 
had been prisoners of state, I collected, and gave to them a place in my flower- 
garden. I even respected the dazzled spiders which ran about the wrecks, seek- 
ing a place to deposite their thread, for they were assuredly the grand-daughters 
of Pelisson, who was crushed by a ferocious jailer. From all this misery I had 
made my fortune ; in this nothingness I had found a shelter, in this diist a gar- 
den, in this state-prison a kingdom of which I was the absolute master. 

" One day, after many storms and tempests, the nation intrusted me with the 
care of the immense elephant of plaster destined to recall the work of July 1 4, 
1789. I adopted this elephant which the people confided to me, and the colos- 
sus, on the other hand, recognised me for its driver. I have heard it said that 
in India the elephant bends Lis knee, to allow his master to mount more easily 
upon his back. My elephant was no less docile ; only, even when kneeling, it 
would have been impossible to reach that tower which he carried so lightly. 
What did he do then ? He held out to me his large hind foot, and through 
Ms hollow leg I penetrated to the very heart of the animal. From that day, I 



COLOSSAL ELEPHANT— REVOLUTION OF JULY COLUMN OF JULY. 91 

was indeed the master of a true palace ; my ball-room was formed in the stom- 
ach of the gentle creature, my work-room admitted daylight through the left 
eye. When I ascended my tower, I hovered over the Parisian city, and thence 
heard all kinds of strange noises. At a distance, I saw large armies setting out 
for conquest, and other armies returning, crippled, but covered with glory. In 
this tumult, I more than once discovered a little man dressed in a gray surtout, 
who, with one motion of his sword, with one look of his eyes, made these armies 
bound off, and they went to the near or distant countries of Europe, to rebound 
at the place which the master had designated to them. All contemporary his- 
tory has thus passed before me, without my being very well able to understand 
its concealed import ; for at this place all the powers stopped : you would have 
said that the Bastille was still erect, so afraid were the masters of this agitated 
France of losing themselves in these latitudes. Here stopped conquerors and 
their armies, kings and nations, as if a quarantine line had been placed between 
my domain and the rest of the world. The horse of Napoleon Bonaparte trem- 
bled with fear when he trod upon this ill-extinguished volcano ; King Louis 
XVIII. turned away his head ; Charles X. became pale with alarm ; I only was 
calm in this kingdom of death, and often said to myself — at the sight of so many 
revolutions, of which the report did but just reach my ear — that ' many more 
revolutions would pass, before the French nation would think of disturbing me, 
in the nest which I had formed for myself.' Vain hope ! fool that I was ! for 
suddenly, one fine summer's day, as I was quietly seated at the door of my cabin, 
I heard resounding one of those loud reports to which, during the last forty 
years, my ear had been accustomed ; I ascended to the top of my tower, saying, 
' It is nothing, it is only a revolution taking place !' It was indeed a revolution ; 
it was accomplished as quickly as the taking of the Bastille. I saw at a distance 
something like a funeral-procession leading an old man, a woman, a^child .... 
exiles whom a vessel.awaited at Cherbourg." 

Then the old man told me of his new misfortune : how he had calculated, but 
in vain, that the revolution of July would not so soon complete the monument 
which it had begun ; how the elephant of the Bastille, that masterpiece of which 
he was the guardian, had been suddenly surrounded by sneers and contempt ; 
how, finally, this column of July had risen in a moment, as if it had sprung 
from the ground, carried above by the sonorous wings of its Gallic cocks. 

" This, sir, is the cause of my grief; I have lived too long ; I have finished 
by seeing an impossibility — I mean a revolution which itself completes the mon- 
uments which it has itself begun ; I have seen myself stripped, even before death, 
of the beautiful domain which I had reclaimed from the ditches of the Bastille. 
It is done ; I have bade adieu to my cabin, to my garden, to my beautiful park, 
to my beloved elephant ; it is done ; rich and and powerful as I was, behold me 
now, ruined, and a beggar !" 

Thus spake the old man. I pitied this dethroned king, and threw a last loi>k 
upon the humble elephant, which seemed to me resigned to his fate. At that 
moment the moon became clouded, the column of July disappeared in the dark- 
ness, and it was impossible for me to determine, whether the old man had not 
been carried away by passion, when he represented this monument as an incom- 
plete and too hastily-executed toy of fortune and chance. 



92 MINERAL WATERS — THE LAKE d'eNGHIEN. 

CHAPTER XV. 

MINERAL WATERS. 

The Parisian country is so complete, that they have finished by discovering 
even mineral waters. At the present moment, Baden-Baden, Weis-Baden, Ems, 
with its health-giving streams, Vichy, Aix in Savoy, Spa, the relaxation of Bel- 
gium, Plombieres, and the delightful baths of Lucca, and all those fine rendez- 
vous of amusement and enjoyment which the Pyrenees enclose, have been re- 
placed by the waters of the lake d'Enghien. The Parisian is naturally a person 
who will not quit the walls of the city within which he dwells ; he surrounds 
himself by railroads expr-ossly for this purpose — not that he may go and seek 
other nations, but that all (lie nations of Europe may come and seek him in 
their most splendid attire. The Parisian, without having left Paris, knows the 
whole world by heart ; even without your taking the trouble to question him, he 
will tell you what is passing in London, what is done in New York, where the 
queen of England took her last airing, what brilliant review his majesty the 
emperor of Russia has held, what new reform their majesties the king of Prus- 
sia and the emperor of Austria meditate in their profound wisdom. The Parisian 
sees all with one glance ; he is everywhere, he knows all the news ; he knows 
nothing else, but then his information on this subject is complete. Why, then, 
do you wish him to disturb himself henceforth ? Pie is resolved not to disturb 
himself, not even to go to a distance in search of health ; health is at his gates, 
a journey of three hours will place it within his reach. For the true Parisian, 
the lake d'Enghien replaces the bleached and ancient wonders of Switzerland. 
At Enghien are assembled, in a degree sufficient to content these beings of so 
much mind, the emotions of travelling, the repose of the country, the flowers 
of the meadow, the neighborhood of the hills — and, above all, the lake, which 
reflects in the silvery mirror the calm smiling landscape. This narrow space is 
enough, and more than enough, to refresh these happy men after their hardest 
labors, to cure them of their most lively passions, to restore to them all the 
strength and all the vivacity which they have expended during the winter. 
Thanks to the sweet valley of such easy poetry, even the Alps have nothing to 
attract them ; the voyage round the world appears to them a folly ; and indeed 
what is the use of going so far, in order to find the peaceful joys and the de- 
lightful freedom of the country, when you have them close at hand, when you 
can transport yourself there in a few hours ; above all, when these poor, deli- 
cate, fragile ladies can find, on the borders of this gently-agitated lake, the rest 
which is so necessary for them ? For my part, I have not the boldness to 
blame them. I wished to see, and I have seen, this charming valley, of which 
poetry recounts so many marvels — which are not, however, beyond the truth. 
Picture to yourself an immense park, filled with villages and hamlets, gardens 
and forests, with a fertile soil, limpid waters, and rich culture ; nothing is want- 
ing, not even ruins and old castles. There lived and reigned, in the time of 
Louis the Gross, that terrible Bouchard de Montmorenci, who was so difficult 
to tame. Many frightful stories are related of this bandit, who was the head of 
one of the most illustrious houses in France. But, at the present day, nothing 
remains of these men of iron, except some ruins of their chateau, and the re- 
membrance of their glory. In France, glory is the only thing which is imper- 
ishable ; the feudal towers have been demolished, the gothic churches have been 
torn down, the princely domains have been sold by auction .... but not one 
of the great names of France has been forgotten. And this is the reason that 
she has continued so great among the nations of the world. 

Among all the Montmorencies who have furnished so many constables to 
France, the people particularly remember that courageous Anne de Montmo- 
renci, who was the right hand of Francis I. and his most valiant gentleman. 
History recalls to us that unhappy Henri de Montmorenci, put to death in Par- 



MONTMORENCI — SAINT GRATIEN — SANNOIS — EPINAT. 93 

is by Cardinal de Richelieu, who thus revenged upon the head of the first Chris- 
tian baron, the insults received by the feudal kings. At the present moment, 
the beautiful village which bears the name of Montmorenci is one of the nu- 
merous rendezvous of the Parisians during the summer: the village is a delight- 
ful spot, the wood resounds with cries of joy. The first who pointed out to the 
Parisian this forest of his adoption, was no less a person than Jean Jacques 
Rousseau. Before him, very few travellers had trusted themselves in this forest 
enclosed between two mountains; but when he had once carried there his elo- 
quent poverty, his generous inspiration, his enthusiastic and loving reveries, 
there was soon a contest who should visit these beautiful paths celebrated by the 
author of tlie Emile. But in that modest house, which is still visited with re- 
spect, J. J. Rousseau found his only days of i-epose and solitude, and almost 
his only days of hope ; there he forgot those ardent struggles, those often cruel 
passions, and finally, — must it be said ? — the delirium of his pride. After him, 
the little house was inhabited by a more natural and a more naturally happy 
man, Gretry, the artless author of so many charming melodies, the amiable 
composer of the most popular chefs d'oeuvre of French music. This very 
winter, all Paris trembled at the sound of that strain now become national, " Oh 
Richard, oh my king 1''^ Dear little house, rendered illustrious by these two 
geniuses I It might repeat, in case of need, the happiest chorusses from the 
Devin du Village, and the exquisite trio of Zemire et Azor ! TheParisian never 
fails to commence his ramble in the forest of Montmorenci, by visiting the house 
of Jean Jacques. There, he finds the beech table on which wrote the author of 
the Helo'ise, the cage in which sang his favorite bird, and even his wooden bed, 
the witness of so many sleepless nights. Poor Rousseau ! and how the agitations 
of his life would disgust the wise men of the best acquired celebrity ! But 
the man who truly conceals himself, where does he hide ? 

Not far from Montmorenci, when you have traversed a small wood of oak, 
and descended to the bottom of the valley, you will find yourself at Saint Gra- 
tien, — Saint Gralien, which was the retreat of the calmest and most sincere of 
heroes, the Marshal de Catinat. He was the pride of the annies of his majesty 
King Louis XIV. ; the most serious and most amiable man of the great centu- 
ry. Never was the self-denial of any one carried to a greater extent ; his cour- 
age was equalled only by his modesty. After having gained so many battles, he 
quitted the court, in order to retire to this beautiful mansion, where, from time 
to time, the respect and the praise of men came to seek the marshal, who had 
fallen into disgrace with the king. 

The shades of Saint Gratien have preserved I know not what imposing gran- 
deur, which has an irresistible effect. In vain has the house been demolished ; 
in vain has the park been divided among the citizens of Paris ; I know not why, 
but people are silent when they pass beneath these trees, as if the illustrious 
captain were about to make his appearance. 

Eaubonne, on the contrary, is a gay, amiable village, of somewhat profane 
appearance, and which, if need were, could easily recall the follies, the elegan- 
ces, and the vices of last century. There lived and reigned, less by wit than 
by grace, less by the youth and beauty of her countenance, than by the kind- 
ness and excellence of her heart, that so-loved and so-charming Madame 
d'Houdetot, for whom — I had almost said by whom — was written the Helo'ise, 
and who must inspired Jean Jacques with his warmest pages. In the world of 
literature, she was called the Sevigne of Sannois ; and, indeed, she had her de- 
lightful ease, her piquant conversation, her witty mind. 

From the village of Sannois to the village of Epinay is not far ; but what an 
infinite distance separated Madame d'Houdetot from Madame d'Epinay. The 
latter, even without trusting too much to the Confessions, was an arrant flirt ! 
These men and women of the eighteenth century had very little heart ! They 
amused themselves with this great genius as if he were a frivolous plaything; 
they treated him like one of the baboons on their chimney-piece. Madame 
d'Epinay called him her bear; but the bear grew sulky, and once offended would 
not wait under the roof which she had lent him, until the month of May had 



94 JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU — MONTMORENCI. 

reappeared, not even till the first flowers of April blossomed ; he would leave, 
leave immediately, beneath this cold December cloud, across the snow which 
covered the highway, poor, ill, already old, and dragging after him some 
wretched furniture, which was broken on the road. But nevertheless, leave 
Jean Jacques to instal himself in his new asylum ; suffer the spring, the sun, the 
song of the bird, all the sweet harmonies of the country to return, and you will 
see the great genius himself again. You will recognise him by the lively in- 
spiration of his eloquence. Thanks to this fresh landscape which has yielded 
him so many honest joys, and so much delirium without danger, Jean Jacques 
Rousseau is everywhere in this valley, which he has surveyed under every as- 
pect. You find him again at the foot of the old trees, near the fountain which 
murmurs its plaintive song, on the borders of the lake, in the evening, when the 
moon rises in the softly-lighted heavens. The rest of this charming country is 
equally fertile in associations. 

Poor Rousseau ! he was for a long time the love and the idol of the Parisian ! 
His books were the favorite reading of all the young men and all the httle girls ; 
they repaired each year in pilgrimage to this valley, rendered illustrious by his 
wonderful genius. It seems to me, that this adoration of Jean Jacques is some- 
what enfeebled in this forgetful country of France. Whether it is, that Jean 
Jacques Rousseau has formed in this century, such terrible disciples (M. de 
Lamennais and George Sand), or whether dull curiosity as to the events of 
which romance treats, has prevailed over brilliancy and vivacity of style — the 
fact is, that the author of the Emile and the Helo'ise, appears to me, to have 
fallen into profound disgrace. More than any other spot in the world, does the 
valley of Montmorenci recall to us J. J. Rousseau ; there he has lived, if not 
happy, at least free, at least his own master, to obey as he would, the power of 
inspiration and genius. The Hermitage of Montmorenci recalls to us the happy 
transports of which these lovely spots were the witnesses. This time, the poet, 
an enthusiast for silence and solitude, quitted the noisy city, never more to re- 
turn to it. The simple house was barely repaired, the spring was yet far dis- 
tant ; but the impatience of the unsociable being was so great, his joy was so 
lively, that in spite of everything he would set out. He recalls it to my mind, 
as if it had only happened last spring ! The earth was just beginning to vege- 
tate ; you could see the violets and the primroses ; the blushing buds of the 
trees began to show themselves. In the wood which joins the house, do you 
hear the nightingale ? Oh what delight for this popular hero of the gay saloons 
of Paris, what happiness for this spoiled child of fame, at last to find himself 
alone and free, in this pure air, in this open space, in this budding wood ! Thus 
he would see everything with his own eyes, touch everything with his own 
hands — look at all, listen to all — the sounds of earth and the sounds of heaven, 
and all the wandering melodies of morning and evening. Not a path, not a 
copse, not a grove, not a nook, which he does not explore with the greatest de- 
light. This place, solitary rather than wild, transported him in idea, to the ends 
of the earth ; it had some of those touching beauties which are seldom found 
near cities, and never, on reaching the spot, could you imagine that you were 
but at the distance of four leagues from Paris. 

Thus he freely yielded himself to his rural delirium ; the forest of Montmo- 
renci became his work-room. There he dreamed, he meditated, he wrote, he 
watched the clouds as they passed over the face of the sky ! He occupied him- 
self, in this profound peace, with the means of giving perpetual peace to the 
men who wished for it ; Paa: hcnninibus borne voluntatis ! There especially he 
forgot nature painted, arranged, tortured, prepared beforehand, as it was under- 
stood at that epoch of evei-y kind of artifice, which was even introduced among 
the flowers, that sprang in such liberal numbers from the bosom of the earth- 
In the old forest, there were no jets d'eau, no manufactured groves, no parterres, 
no statues ; and also no pamphlets, no harpsichords, no trios, no foolish diffi- 
culties, no bon mots, no insipid affectation, no little narrators, and no great sup- 
pers ; nor yet any amber, or furbelows, or jewels ; and behind one, there was no 
lackey to pour out, for you, with a pleasant air, adulterated wines. No, cer- 



IMAGINATION — FLOWERS. 95 

tainly, but to make amends for this, there was the greatest independence, an 
agreeable and soUtary asylum, hawthorn bushes, thickets laden with fruits; 
meadows, wheat, hamlets, rustic songs, delightful shades, and the purling of the 
brooks. There also, he recalled the few fine days of his youth, the first palpi- 
tations of his heart, the happy accidents of his life ; the dinner at the chateau 
de Tonne ; Mademoiselle Galley and her companion, when they crossed the 
water, showing their white teeth as they laughed ; and the scene of the tree 
covered with cherries — " Why are not my lips cherries !" and Mademoiselle de 
Breil — the charming Madame Basile, whose memory still enlightens the whole 
city of Turin ; and Madame de Larnage ; and you also, piquant Zulietta, the 
Venetian I Past intoxication, remembrances of early days, distant melodies, 
floating reveries, passing enthusiasm of the first spring seasons, vanished to so 
great a distance ! 

But, to these choice minds, love is never impossible ; they have at their com- 
mand all kinds of new passions ; the ideal satisfies them — the ideal, which sings 
and which dreams, and which colors all dreams. Hail then to the country of 
chimeras I Let us leave Rousseau to surround himself, at his ease, with the 
most perfect creatures, celestial by their virtues, angels by their beauty. A 
happy man at last, behold him flitting in the air, amid the lovely beings of his 
creation. There he passes hours, there he passes days, he gives his whole life 
to this occupation ; he will scarcely take time to eat, so impatient is he to re- 
turn to the enchanted forest, which is filled with these aerial imaginations ! 

But, oh misfortune ! all this dream of love is about to become reality ; all 
this ideal happiness is to be replaced by ardent passion, bitter tears, sleepless 
nights, agitations of the heart ! Oh Madame d'Houdetot, what were you about, 
when you took the fancy to pass by the mill of Clairvaux in order to arrive at 
the Hermitage ? She laughed ! she had plunged her foot into the mud, up to 
the ankle-bone, and it was necessary for the philosopher to allow this Httle foot 
to be dried at his fire ! Poor Jean Jacques Rousseau ! Assuredly the Louvre 
is a beautiful work among all the works of men ; it shines with a brilliancy new 
every day ! The Louvre is the admiration of Paris and of the world. And yet 
such is the mighty power of poetry and imagination, that two lines of a great 
writer will give even the celebrity of the Louvre, to the most humble shrub and 
the most unknown path of the forest of Montmorenci. 



CHAPTER XVL 



In the month of June, you will suddenly find that you can be present at the 
fete of the flowers. They have their day of glory and of triumph, their crowns 
and their golden medals, as well as poetry and the fine arts. The chateau of 
the Tuileries is not too splendid, to shelter these fragile but charming wrestlers 
of the Parisian Flora, the palace of the Luxembourg is not too magnificent, 
worthily to accommodate them. Suffer me then to conduct you to this beauti- 
ful spot, where the wisest horticulturists and the most skilful gardeners of Paris 
assemble all the riches of their hot-houses, of their gardens, of their orchards, in 
order to compose, with the four seasons of the year, gathered together in the 
same place, the freshest, most delightful, and most fugitive of exhibitions. 

To speak the truth, it is a wonderful display. You are much astonished, no 
doubt, when you see arriving at the Louvre, the Cassandre of M. Pradier, or 
the Cain of M. Etex— mountains of marble or bronze ; but it is doubtless much 
more surprising, to see running to the Luxembourg, roses and oaks, the cama- 



96 HORTICULTURAL FKTE THE DAHLIAS. 

tion and the camelia, the former the honor of the gardens, the latter the glory 
and pride of the opera-boxes, which it converts into so many parterres inter- 
mingled with living flowers ! Yes, it is strange to see blended — not only with- 
out violence, but on the contrary, in the most delightful manner — corn and 
grapes, the winter apple and the peach, the monthly rose and the chilly magno- 
lia grandiflora. Formerly this was the task of the landscape painters, the work 
of Cabat or of Jules Dupre ; they remained the absolute and legitimate masters 
of the verdant forest, the calm orchard; now, in their turn, gardeners and labor- 
ers set themselves to the employment ; the landscape painter is surpassed by a 
power superior to his own : strictly speaking, it is the realization of the speech 
of Jean Bart to Louis XIV. — " What he has said, luill do .'" 

Meantime, we must hasten, if we wish to see in their beauty, these delicate 
paintings which the pencil of man has never touched; we must hasten, if we 
would admire them in all their spring, youth, and grace, those sweet master- 
pieces so exquisitely sculptured by a hand divine ; let us profit as we can, by 
this brilliancy of a day, by this grace which lasts barely an hour, by these ephe- 
meral wonders, children nourished by the air, by the sun, by the beneficent dew, 
by the sap which circulates in the old trees ; an eternal life which lasts a day, a 
youth unceasingly returning ; frail yet enduring chefs d'ceuvre which die to re- 
appear. Already, there are more than one of these beautiful exiled plants, 
which, in a low voice, regret their native soil ; more than one, which seek in 
vain the clear lake, that served as a mirror to their beauty. Ennui takes posses- 
sion of them in this palace of the Luxembourg, a brilliant prison. In these 
dark and silent galleries, the lovely flowers want air, sun, and space ; in vain do 
they call for the song of the bird, the limpid murmur of the brook, the morn- 
ing and the evening dew, the mid-day sun, the soft light of the moon, and the 
fruitful dust of these beautiful stars of night, which flutter in the heavens. 
Even the butterfly has abandoned the rose ; the gilded butterfly has forsaken the 
lily; the bee has left the flowering genista ; La Fontaine's rabbit has forgotten 
the wild thyme ; the shining worm, its blade of grass. At the same time, the 
violet complains of having been forcibly torn from the leaf which conceals it ; 
the ivy asks where it must cling ; the moss seeks an old stone to cover with its 
soft carpet; the unhappy water-lily regrets the little brook on which it displayed 
its flowers ; the saddened yoke-elm no longer hears the song of the nightingale. 
The disorder is complete, the grief is universal. And yet these unfortunate 
exiles patiently suffer all these tortures, they force themselves to be beautiful 
and to appear so, they will not contradict their noble origin ; they have all the 
grace, but likewise all the courage of flowers ; one of them, and she the most 
beautiful, died, immediately on her entrance into the palace, and you may still 
see the corpse languishing in its original beauty ; she died sweetly, as all flow- 
ers do die, enveloping herself in her withering leaf as in a modest winding- 
sheet. Once more, then, we must hasten ; do not let us prolong these sufi'er- 
ings more than is necessary. 

However, laying aside a very natural philanthropy for these fragile and de- 
lightful creatures, it is a sight full of interest, and we know no time more filled 
with pleasures of every kind, than this hour passed amid these newly-blown 
fllowers, these fruits gathered but the evening before ; on all sides there are the 
most incredible rarities and splendors. First displays itself to you, in all its va- 
rieties, in all its colors, in all its incalculable brilliancy, the family of the dahlias, 
born but yesterday, but already nearly as numerous as the family of Montmo- 
renci, since the day when its old genealogical tree was planted in the holy ground 
of the crusades. Whoever should attempt to count, and arrange in order these 
colored members of the same family — even were he called Linnaeus — would, in 
the attempt lose his patience, his science, and his Latin. At the present day, 
there is no celebrated gardener, there is no good house possessing a garden, 
without a complete collection of dahlias ; new varieties are produced by every 
kind of stratagem ; the beautiful plant I slender, balanced upon its stalk, of ele- 
gant form, and infinite variety, hardy, and asking only the most ordinary care ; 
it is now, at once, the simplest and the most brilliant decoration of the garden. 



USEFUL FLOWERS — BARBAROUS LATIN. 97 

But let US turn to this admirable collection of useful flowers. Useful and 
Jlower, two apparently opposite words — two lying promises, . . . two promises 
accomplished ; pretty flowers which heal, elegant plants which save. Strange 
to say, these same medicinal plants which appear to us so horrible to see, hung, 
as they are, like so many faded garlands after a revel, at the door of the apothe- 
caries or the herbalists ; when you come to observe them upon their waving 
stalks, you are delighted and astonished to find that they have all the appearance 
of a flower, of a modest shrub, of a sweet something, in fact, which it is impos- 
sible to define. Are these indeed the same frightful, nauseous, powdery herbs, 
with which we are pursued by domestic pharmacy ? 'Tis even so, that pretty, 
little, blue flower, that flower" which leans so coquettishly, that sweet verdure 
which you would say, was spread there to serve some poetic meditation, all these 
fresh treasures, will be the prey of the herbalist, of the tisan maker ; they will 
yield the yellowish teint of the liquorice bush ; they will fill with their nauseous 
and insipid juice the cup of the hospital ; they will make us turn away our 
heads in our days of sickness. Permit us then, to look at them with affection 
and enjoyment, while we are in good health — both we and the plants. Suffer 
us to gather them while they are in flower, allow us to inhale their light per- 
fume, without any other thought, than that of agreeably flattering the frailest 
and most evanescent of our five senses. Now or never is the time to cry, " Oh 
medicine! Iioill none of you!''' And truly apropos of these plants, whenever I 
look at an herbalist, it seems to me that I see some beautiful, young girl, slight 
and elegant, in the arms of a grave-digger. 

Unfortunately the barbarous Latin of the gardeners of Paris and of England, 
somewhat spoils — at least with me — the grace, the brilliancy, and the perfume 
of the loveliest flowers. 

Can you imagine that, to speak Latin, at the present day, in this France, sa 
proud of her science, collected from every quarter of the globe — it is not ne- 
cessary to be the Christian orator in his pulpit, or the political orator in his trib- 
une ; the magistrate dispenses with it as easily as the soldier, the philosopher as 
well as the artist, the prose writer as well as the poet ; the disdain of it is gen- 
eral, the exemption is the same for all; but from this forgotten science the gar- 
dener alone is not released. The spade does not preserve from Latin ; on the 
contrary, these vulgar fathers of the most beautiful flowers must speak the most 
barbarous idiom, if they wish to understand each other. All the names of the 
mother-tongue, and even those adopted by the poets, are pitilessly banished from 
the richest parterres ; so that you, who arrive, full of animation, to witness this 
perfumed fete of the Parisian Flora, and who think yourself sufficiently ad- 
vanced to understand the patois of our modern Linneeuses, you, who read Hor- 
ace and Tacitus with ease, are yet completely at a loss, what to understand by 
all these barbarous names which belong to no language. You ask yourself 
with alarm, what is this unknown argot, and in what Iroquois country you have 
suddenly fallen. The best-loved and the most familiar flower, that which you 
see every morning in your garden, that which you offer to the lady of your af- 
fections, that which you plant on the tomb of your mother, in order that she 
may have near her a filial remembrance, those gentle companions of our child- 
hood, the sweet flowers that we imprudently wasted, as if they were only our 
happy days — well ! thanks to this barbarous Latin, we no longer know their 
names ; we seek, but in vain, to recognise them., we dare not say that we have 
met them somewhere beneath our footsteps, when we had numbered but six- 
teen years. Go then and see where you are with such words as these ; liatris 
squarrosa, lobelia twpa, salvia canariensis, fcchsia coccinea, pentstemon gentian- 
aides, tropcelum pentaphyllum ! Assui'edly, he who originated this science, and 
at the same time originated its language — the great Linnaeus, as he is called — 
must have been indeed, a man of surpassing genius, for the language which he 
formed, thus to have been preserved, among so many revolutions which have 
caused much more important things than languages to disappear ! At any rate, 
this Latin of the Parisian gardeners — not the kitchen, but the garden Latin — 
the analogies of which can not be perceived, is one of the most incredible lan- 
guages which men ever spoke. 

7 



<(S8 THE ROSES — TDMPS — DAISIES — PANSIES. 

How much I prefer the nomenclature of the roses ! I know not why, but it 
seems to me that in the vegetable world this is the only flower which has escaped 
Latin designations. This favor has been granted it, that it should be abandoned 
to all vulgar minds ; while our hot-house Latinists put themselves to torture 
. that they may forge barbarisms. The amateur of roses, more indulgent and 
,,more sensible, gives to his beautiful flowers beloved names — the names of heroes, 
of great artists ; the names of beautiful ladies, the name of his young wife, or his 
eldest daughter, or of his infant child ; sometimes even the name of his political 
opinions. Thus you have the rose Henry V., and the rose Ferdinand, one near 
the other, and without dreading a duel with thorns ; you have the rose Louis 
XIL, and the rose Louis XV. ; the rose Elizabeth, Colbert, Emilie Lesourd ; the 
rose Rosine, and the rose Fanclion, and the rose Celemene ; ma tante Aurore, and 
Silene, have each their own rose. These are what I call titles ; with these you 
may recognise them again, when once you have named them ! General Mar- 
ceau and Marechal de Villars have also their rose. Alas ! there is also the rose 
Charles X, that dethroned king, that kind, affable gentleman ; here is all that 
remains to us of this king of France, less than nothing — a flower I 

It is very vexatious that we should be so completely ignorant of all these won- 
ders ; above all, it is very annoying that we have not time to learn this new sci- 
ence, which must render the honest men who cultivate it so happy. Here, for 
instance, is a clever horticulturist, who exhibits sixty-two varieties of plants, 
from the fuchsia inacrostemma to the rudbecMa hirta. Oh, the beautiful tulips, 
the splendid colors, the sweet flower-cup of exquisite form ! The great master 
of this varied army, whom the conquering spring brings in his suite to thank 
the sun, is a skilful gardener named Tripet Leblanc. But then the tulip fades 
so quickly ! It is too evanescent for the honors of the exhibition. In the month 
of July, the most beautiful tulip is nothing more than a vile onion, melancholy 
to see. This is the reason that M. Tripet Leblanc, when his tulip is faded, turns 
all his attention to the most simple and most modest of flowers, the daisy, which 
did not expect so much honor. And if you knew how grateful they had shown 
themselves for all the trouble which the clever gardener has taken ! These flow- 
ers, so humble in their attitude and in their natural dress, have raised their 
heads, and are now adorned with the most varied colors. They are shepherd- 
esses who have become queens, by the simple power of their native beauty and 
brilliancy. Then come the pansies, a numerous family, to which, art and care 
have given incredible dimensions. Never could the modest flower have dreamed 
of a richer mantle of velvet and ermine. We stop, we look at them, we ask our- 
selves if this is really the flower of former days. It is herself, dressed, enlarged, 
ornamented. But what sweet odor strikes your delighted sense ? what unex- 
pected perfumes ? what unknown forms ? We are now in presence of all the 
productions of the south and the sun. Coffee, sugar-cane, vanilla, tea, opium ; 
the most beautiful chadec orange-trees, with contracted leaves, with myrtle-blos- 
soms, or with fading blossoms ; they are obtained without difficulty in the hot- 
houses of the Parisian gardens. Suddenly a strong smell of jasmine reaches 
you ; did you not then perceive, laden with their white flowers, those jasmines 
from the Azores, those odoriferous myrtles, those red-flowered arbutuses ? In 
point of trees and rare plants, salute the long-leaved magnolia grandiflora, the 
English magnolia, the myrtle, and the nerium dfeuilles panachies, the geranium 
-regine, the Peruvian heliotrope, and the cactus, the dwarf banana-tree from 
China, and the new bananas from Havana, and the golden cedar-tree of M. Sou- 
lange Bodin, and his cypress, and his varieties of pine-trees, and his fine oaks of 
seven diflorent species ; in a word, all the curiosities of those beautiful gardens 
of Fromont, so long despised, and which have, at the present day, become a 
great and noble enterprise ! But, indeed, we know not what to choose from 
this rich display. One has transplanted trees brought from all the known 
, parts of the world; another, less ambitious, has cultivated the orge d'lmalaya, 
and the moutarde de Chine. This one, forcing every law of nature, brings us in 
triumph a magnolia hartioica. The history of this beautiful plant is worthy of 
being related. It is the production of a magnolia grandiflora and a magnolia 



FLORA AND POMONA — VEGETABLES — FRUIT — FLOWERS CARNATIONS. 99 

fuscata. It blossomed for the first time at the very foot ; it was then only thirty 
inches high : its flowers were small, as white as those of the lily, and had pre- 
served the sweet smell of the magnolia fuscata, their worthy father. 

In point of beautiful trees, you have the silvery fir, the olive-tree of Crimea, 
the Virginia poplar. 

But this is not all : Pomona now disputes the prize with Flora ! After blos- 
soms, comes fruit ; this is but fair. It is enough to make your mouth water, 
only to hear their names : the Canada pippin, the Dutch pippin, the various 
kinds of pears, the crasanne, the Saint Germain, the heurre gris, the hon chretien 
d'hiver, the Messire Jean dore, the doyenne d'automnc. And the delicious fruits 
which I forget, ungrateful that I am ! the cerise de Prusse, and the poire du 
tonneau, and the sweet, brilliant, velvet peaches — a thousand times more beauti- 
ful than the golden apples of the garden of Hesperides ! — the peche-petite- 
mignonne, Golconde, Madeleine rouge, Malte, Belle-de- Vitry, newly-landed from 
the village of Montreuil, all blushing, and covered with that fine down which 
softens their brightest colors. 

But how is it possible to remember everything ? All the fruits of creation 
were united to all its flowers ! 'The calville, apples from every kind of apple-tree 
were mingled with the flowers of all the rose-trees ; there were pears and jon- 
quilles, roses and strawberries, the apricot lying with the marvel of Peru, im- 
mense melons half concealed beneath the blossoms of the cactus ! The grapes 
— how rich, how rare, how numerous they are ! And the well-dressed plants, 
even the most common, which fill worthily their place in this kitchen-garden 
sun-ounded by such rich borders, in this orchard in the open air, mingled with 
the choicest productions of the hothouse and the greenhouse. For instance, 
what an interesting confusion, the Eastern garlic, the Jersey shallot, the onion, 
the wild carrot, the yellow turnip from Naples, the pine-apple potatoes, the ivild 
chicory, that horrible drug from which is manufactured a horrible coffee ; the 
radish, the tcild cabbage, the shrivelled date, the Russian cucumber, the Italian 
pumplcin, the Maltese melon tvith red or white sMn, the white Spanish cedra, the 
black Belgic kidney-bean, all the treasures of the kitchen-gardens mingled Avith 
the balsams, the Chinese and Indian carnations, the dahlias, and the queen dai- 
sies : without counting that the orge a deux rangs trifurques, the seigle de la 
Saint Jean, the indigo, the ?noka de Hongrie, the chanvre du Piem/mt, play their 
parts in this rural drama — a drama full of variety, elegance, and interest. This 
is, without contradiction, one of the greatest enjoyments of a summer in Paris, 
one of the most agreeable relaxations of this delightful weather. More than one 
lady of twenty years old, smiling, inconsiderate, too pretty to be often serious, 
nevertheless thinks this annual exhibition of the finest fruits and the most beau- 
tiful flowers an important business. More than once, as you watch these fair 
damsels, attentive and curious, you are astonished to find that they give to all 
these plants their appropriate names ; they arrange them in families, they recog- 
nise them by certain signs, they salute them with transport as so many sisters 
happily refound. These young Parisian ladies can, with so much grace, make 
a transitory pleasure of a grave aflfair, a serious occupation of a useless passion ! 
Watch that lady, who passes, enveloped in a mantle ; she is going to the Cham- 
ber of Deputies, to be present, smiling, and half lolling, at the discussion upon 
questions of peace or war. She does not listen — she looks, .she wishes to be 
seen ; she has promised the speaker to utter a little sound of applause at his 
most eloquent passage, and she will not fail to keep her word ! A week after- 
ward, you may find the same frolicsome, careless damsel — ^who laughed so much 
over the question about sugars, or the right of search — walking with a grave, 
solemn step, through the horticultural exhibition. Silence ! she thinks, she 
compares, she judges ! Suff"er her to speak, and she will astonish the most in- 
trepid nomenclators in their own science. 

But what do we say? For some two days the regiments of carnations 
are under arms, they have assumed their scarlet robes, they have decorated 
themselves with their most brilliant neckcloths; it is the time when the flower 
starts up, young, slender, and erect upon its stalk. At this hour nothing is more 



100 FAVORITE NAMES MUSIC. 

beautiful to see than the thousand children of the great family of the carnations, 
all varied in form, in color, in grace, and in brilliancy. Spoiled children of the 
French Flora, they display to the southern wind their richest cloak of crimson. 
The buzzing bee, seeing their loveliness, scarcely dares touch them with his 
honeyed sting ; the fresh morning throws into their flower-cup a drop of his sweet 
dew. The sun salutes them with his indulgent rays, the evening wind rocks and 
lulls them to sleep, not without having carefully closed the precious calyx. The 
dazzled eye knows not where to turn, amid these perfumed flowers with their 
thousand colors. 

Here is the odorous army of the red carnations, of a deep brilliant red ! Here 
are the scarlet fidmands, the sables with their diversified colors, the hichons 
bordered with blue and rose, the ardoises of clear pearl-color shaded with red — 
the powdered chamois, true chamberlains of the empire of Flora — the yellow 
carnations, and finally the fantaisie, the whimsical carnation which belongs to 
each and to all, capricious, coquettish, fantastical ; the carnation — a broom-plant 
which displays all kinds of variegations upon its war helmet. How beautiful, 
how gay they are, how happy to pass their life of a day ? And that they may 
readily be found again in the flowering season, the clever gardener has simply 
given them the greatest and most charming names of modern France. Here 
we may salute his majesty King Louis Philippe, and his royal highness the 
Prince de Joinville, and the Duke d'Aumale, carelessly placed at the very top 
of its stalk; the Dutchess de Nemours, so brilliant; and the Count de Paris, 
that handsome child I There you may see M. Guizot by the side of Madame 
Thiers, Mademoiselle Bertin not far from M. Hugo, M. Ingres and M. Alphonse 
Karr. Who else? The Princess de Czartoryska, Mademoiselle Mars, and 
Mademoiselle Georges, under the name Melpomene. 

After the astronomer who makes one of the stars assume the name of his 
young wife ; after the enthusiastic traveller, who from the height of the terrace 
of Saint Germain — when evening approaches — contemplates this immense gulf 
called Paris ; yes certainly, and even after the poet who gives the appellation of 
his mistress to a whole century, I know no happier man than the florist who can 
thus name, according to his own fancy, all the flowers of his garden. 



CHAPTER XVII. 



The great delight, the great occupation of the summer in Paris, is music. 
As long as the winter lasts, the Parisians play to be applauded, to be admired, 
but when summer comes they play for themselves, not for others. If you take 
pleasure in hearing them sing or touch their favorite instruments, well and. good, 
they will permit you to be present ; but you are perfectly at liberty, if music 
does not please you, to go and walk in the garden. It must also be confessed, 
that this great art is admirably cultivated in this city, the progress of which is so 
rapid in all the arts. Fontenelle, who had so much wit, and who comprehended 
things so exactly, said in his time, Sonata, what would you from me? If Fon- 
tenelle were living now, he would lend an attentive and delighted ear to the skil- 
ful melodies of some happy drawing-rooms, which are justly celebrated through- 
out Paris. Music is no longer, as in the time of Clementi and the harpsichord, 
a strumming occupation of the young girl who wishes to be married ; it is a com- 
plete science, diflRcult, gravely cultivated even by young scholars, who are train- 
ed at an early age, by clever masters- Thus, music is no longer made a frivo- 
lous pastime, but is taught as a serious business ! I know a certain Parisian 



MEYERBEER ROSSINI — ;HALEVY EXQUISITE SINGERS. 101 

house, concealed between the silence of the court and the shadow of the gar- 
den, in which, if you have the slightest love for chefs d'oeuvre, you will certain- 
ly hear the best and most delightful music. There reign, as absolute masters, 
venerated and admired, Weber and Mozart, Gluck and Beethoven ; all kinds of 
genius, every great work; the clearest and inost beautiful voices consider it an 
honor, to sing these calm and affectionate melodies. What the master has com- 
posed, they sing as he has composed it ; nothing more, nothing less. What 
pleasant evenings are thus passed with the Freischutz, or the Don Juan, or the 
Adelaide! Or else it is some new comer, who asks aid and protection; it is 
Schubert, for instance, whose ideal revery makes every mind fall into a thou- 
sand happy dreams. To all these great ideas, the most excellent interpreters 
are not wanted ; these fearless singers are encouraged in their noble task by the 
first composers of the present day; Meyerbeer, if he is at all pleased with these 
fine voices, will lead the orchestra; Rossini, if he feels himself to be well under- 
stood and well rendered will preside at the piano. How often have I seen Hal- 
evy turn the page of the lady who sang! For all the composers of Europe 
consider as an honor this musical fraternity, which unites them to the 
virtuosos of the saloons. They are so happy and so proud to see them- 
selves thus understood, thus sung ! At the same time the best artists ask 
their part in this long-dreamed popularity. Madame Damoreau, for instance, is 
never more charming never more bird-like, than in these friendly reunions, 
where she can display, at her ease, the rare bevvitcheries of this inimitable art. 
That poor Nouritt, who died so quickly I With how much feeling did he sing 
the melodies of Schubert, which he taught to France, and M. Chateaubriand's 
air, the Breton air, Combienfai douce souvenance! Last summer, at the cha- 
teau in Normandy, one rainy evening, a young woman,- with a handsome and 
stern countenance, rose suddenly without being asked to do so, placed herself 
at the piano, and sang with an exquisite voice, some little unknown drama, 

written in a few plaintive notes She drew tears from all of us, and when 

we asked the name of this lady, so simple, so touching, so true, whom we 
should have taken for the proprietress of some neighboring chateau, they an- 
swered that it was Madame Nathan-Treilhet, the finest voice at the Opera in 
Paris. Or, perhaps, in the fashionable world, a lady takes her seat at the piano, 
and breathes forth the sweetest airs of Bellini, that genius who died so young! 
Her voice is soft, vibrating, energetic; who is she ? She is called the Countess 
de Montenegro ; not long since, she was a person of quality in Spain ; at the 
present day, she knocks at the door of the Italian Theatre ! And that rare 
talent, that indefatigable inspiration, that lady of so much art, taste, and feel- 
ing, who sings as long as people wish, when she feels herself admired and 
listened to ? it is Madame de Sparre, the queen of saloons filled with melody. 
Or else, that active, delicate lady, with an intelligent, black eye, full of 
fire, a quick mind, an accomplished performer, who sings with so skilful and 
so airy a voice, while she looks, at every bar, at the gentleman who accompanies 
her ; it would certainly be impossible to find two voices which accorded better. 
These clever and melodious singers agree wonderfully ; they attack the most 
difficult works ; just as she is quick, animated, gay, natural, in the same propor- 
tion is he animated, airy, droll, amusing, delightful ; the best music of Italy, all 
her old masters, have no secrets for these two good companions of natural 
melody. Who is he ? and who is she ? He is the cleverest chymist of the 
present day, the most laborious savant in France ; he has written books which 
have become laws ; he has, by himself, discovered more crimes, than all the 
most acute criminal lawyers united. This man, who gives with so much energy 
and expression, Rossini's music, is the same who discovered, in so complete a 
way, in the stomach of Madame Lafarge's victim, the traces of the poison 

which concealed itself there You remember that melancholy scene, 

when, upon the stern and convinced countenance of this man, frightened him- 
self at what he was about to say, the criminal could read her sentence 

and the judges their award already dictated ! 

Music ! it is the great pleasure of this city, the great occupation of the draw- 



]02 PRINCE DE LA MOSCOWA THE ENGLISHMAN S WELCOME. 

ing-rooms, which have banished pohtics, and which have renounced literature, 
from ennui. Question your recollections, and you will see that this great art of 
music is exercised by those men and women who occupy the highest position 
in the world. The Prince de la Moscowa this spring, had the chefs d'oeuvre 
of Handel and of Palestrina, sung by the most beautiful voices in the Faubourg 
Saint Germain. Never did the ancient abbey of Longchamps, in the time of 
its splendor, resound with sweeter voices, or more sacred airs. The intelligence 
of these happy artists is pushed farther than can easily be told ; they bring to 
the execution of these beautiful works, all the art, all the science, all the poetie 
genius of primitive times, when the master himself led, in the sweet songs of 
harmony, his young children of the choir. Happy he who can take his part in 
these chosen joys of the first drawing-rooms in Paris ! happy he, who is admit- 
ted into these assemblies of artists so well disposed for enthusiasm I For my 
own part, in this, as in everything else, I have no reason to complain of Parisian 
hospitality ; the stranger is loved in Paris, he is sought, he is protected. Ap- 
probation brought from afar, the remembrances which the traveller takes back 
to his own land, are not without value, even in the eyes of the handsomest wo- 
men, and the cleverest men. If you arrive with ever so little benevolence and 
sympathy, you will certainly be welcome. The position of a traveller who 
knows how to make himself agreeable to these French Athenians, is, undoubt- 
edly, a position worthy of envy : every house is open to you, every hand is held 
out to you. You easily pass the first and most difficult preliminaries of friend- 
ship. They remember in your favor, past absence and approaching departure; 
you are in every one's confidence; you are invited to all the parties ; in all the 
fetes you have your part, and your good part too ; for you, and for you only, 
there are no exactions, no despotism. You visit a house every day. — " Well !" 
they say, " the Englishnan is weary, and he comes to ask from us, a little friend- 
ship and a little chatting." — You are a whole month without calling; " It is be- 
cause this poor Englishman is so busy seeing, guessing, understanding every- 
thing." — You are at once admitted into the intimacy of these ladies and gentle- 
'men. The ladies do not mistrust you — a bird of passage ! The gentlemen 
have not the least jealousy of you, for, in fact, are you not to leave ou the mor- 
row, at latest ? Thus you go, you come, you return, you remain, you disap- 
pear, you are completely your own master. What a delightful life ! But then 
how sad it is, to know that these Parisians will so soon have forgotten this friend 
whom they loved so much I 

At any rate unworthy, I had my share in all these enjoyments, in all these 
fetes, in all these concerts. Among other amusements, let me describe to you 
the excellent parody of all the boasting of the Italian libretti, in which some 
simple amateurs indulged ; I know not of any pleasantry in better taste, of any 
irony less cruel, of any more innocent raillery. Come with me once more, and 
depend upon it, you will be well guided. 

We are in a splendid saloon, gilded from top to bottom, by some farmer gen- 
eral of the last century. This saloon is sparkling with lights and paintings,. 
Through the half-open windows, you can see the chestnut-trees of the garden. 
Within this rich enclosure has arisen, as if by enchantment, and only for an 
hour, a beautiful little theatre in which nothing is wanting ; neither the orches- 
tra, nor the curtain, nor the prompter's box. At nine o'clock the pit is filled 
with the handsomest and most charming people. What a beautiful audience ! 
Even Mademoiselle Mars, who has seen at her feet an assembly of kings, has 
never witnessed such a one as this. Picture to yourself the^most lovely coun- 
tenances, the whitest shoulders, the sparkling diamond, the opening flower, the 
riband, the lace, the light and the dark hair. Never was there a better dressed 
audience, or one displaying more grace and wit, more smiles, more vivacity, or 
more happiness. While waiting, all chat ; the conversation is lively, animated,, 
curious. Ten o'clock strikes, when, behind the curtain of the little theatre, we 
hear the signal for commencing. 

What silence ! all is hushed, even the tremulous motion of the fans. Seated 
at his piano, a man with an inspired and modest look, commences I know not 



EXTRADORINART ACTORS — A GREAT MISTAKE. 103 

what tender and loving elegy, which immediately makes one dream.* The 
curtain rises, and imagine our surprise ! horrible Turks, with faded turbans, 
spangled waistcoats and pantaloons, appear, singing '' Cerchiamo ! cerchiamo !" 
an Italian air of their own composition. In the meantime, they seek you know 
not what. In vain are they asked, '• What is the matter? what are you looking 
for ? advertise it in the streets, have little bills of it printed !" They still reply. 
" Cerchiamo! cerchiamo .'" They are of enormous size, their turbans touch the , 
cornice of the theatre, and they vanish, repeating, " Cerchiamo ! cerchiamo .'" 
Then arrives Don Ferocino. He is bedizened with velvet and gold ; how well 
he sings I It is the most beautiful voice that can be heard, a full, sonorous, vi- 
brating, clear bass, the voice of Lablache, but of Lablache at the time of his 
first appearance. In fact, it is the same fine voice which you have heard in the 
best Parisian drawing-rooms, at Madame Orfila's, for instance, on those days 
when Madame de Sparre sang! After Ferocina, comes a brave pilgrim who 
sings, "/e suis un pelerino de la Legion d^ Honneur, Poverino pelenno ! Jamais 
on ri'en troiiva un piou, malheureux, piou, piou, piou, piou, malheureux /" And 
he is driven to despair. " Silence !" says Ferocino; " I hear, in the forest the 
gondolier singing the barcarole!" — " In the forest?" says the chevalier-pilgrim 
of the Legion d'Honneur. — "In the forest!" replies Ferocino. And in fact the 
barcarole commences ; " Zephyr souffia gentile /" It is something new and 
strange, this ballad which recalls the barcarole of Othello ; " Zephyr souffla gen- 
tile /" They listen and they dream. In vain does the musician, who is one of 
the most skilful, try to keep up the parody, often the parody escapes him, and 
he again becomes completely the dreamer and the poet, whom we all know. 
The barcarole once sung, Clorinda appears in a pearl-colored dress. Listen to 
her, how she sings! But it is she, they recognise her! There is that large 
black eye which nothing can resist ! And the flexible, airy voice, so airy that 
she carries with her the sweetest melodies ! At this moinent more than ever, is 
the parody lost. It is a great artiste, who sings the music of a great musician ! 
The audience no longer laugh, they listen. But soon the chorus of the Turks 
returns ; these gentlemen carry banners, and sing the happiness of Clorinda. 
Remember that Clorinda is anything but happy. The chorus sings Vivat Clo- 
rinda ! Clorinda recognises Orlando by his immense croix d'honneur. 
^ But Don Ferocino, seeing that the pilgrim is not a pilgrim, threatens him by 
look and gesture, " Si void dechirarP^ The pilgrim on the other hand, repeats, 
*' Si volo dechirar ! si volo dechirar .'" The more they sing, the more tender 
their voices become, and the more friendly their actions. By means of repeat- 
ing, " Si volo dechirar /" our two rivals fall into each other's arms, so that the 
quarrel can no longer be maintained. 

Here ends the first act. Assiduous domestics, who are not Turks, bring ices, 
and sherbets more than oriental, to the noble ladies. They clap their hands. 
Already they agree that the music of Don Ferocino, is all grace, all intelligence, 
Jively and clear, and full of ideas ! Then suddenly, the younger ladies stand up 
and turning toward the door, begin to murmur, "It is he ! it is Rossini ! I know 
him ! I saw him ten years ago ; I was then at school ! It is he ! it is his little, 
piercing eye, his roguish smile. He does not look very well pleased, that we 
should laugh so heartily at the Italian music. "Why did they say that he was 
ill ? he looks stout and well !" Thus they talk ; and all follow him with their 
looks — their animated and attentive gestures : each one says, " Rossini ! show 
me Rossini !" To tell the truth, it is not Rossini. It is a gentleman who is 
much amused with these happy follies, and thinks there is in all this admirable 
parody, much art, much taste, much quaintness and wit. 

To your seats ! the curtain rises a second time; all look eagerly for Don Fe- 
rocino. They admire two firemen, two real firemen, or very nearly so, one of 
whom might be called an epitome of the brigade ! He has seen everything, he 

* Perhaps some of our readers may not be aware, that private theatricals are exceedingly com= 
mon in France, and the following pages describe a burlesque upon the absurd plots of the Ital- 
ian Opera. The French account is full of grace and vivacity,— qualities, which, it is feared, are 
almost, if not entirely lost, in the English translation. -E. T, 



104 LEARNED CRITICS — MARVELLOUS PLOT. 

knows everything, he even understands Italian, and that echignant means to beat 
soundly, which is the commencement of the critic's language ; " Stop," says 
he, " what are you doing ?" " I am waiting for the burning of Babylon .'^^ adds 
the innocent fireman ; " why then is not Babylon burned ?" " Because it does 
not please the Babylonians and the prefect of police. It will not burn, but it is 
warming. Did you hear them clap?" And now the two men discuss the mer- 
its of the opera represented. " Is it a drama ? is it a comedy ?" " It resembles 
everything," says the critic. " That is better than to resemble nothing," replies 
the other fireman. They are still writing their little sheet, and we listening to 
them (happy firemen !), when a cry is heard, " Room in the theatre /" Then the 
theatre, which exhibited two firemen, suddenly presents only a gloomy dungeon, 
in which Clorinda is lying upon straw. Poor Clorinda ! she is mad. But do 
not disturb yourself, she is only mad on one side, the side on which her hair is 
uncurled ! " Defrisata, ata, ata, tata /" says the chorus. 

In her madness, Clorinda hears tlie nightingale sing, and then she commences 
a duet with it. The nightingale, a bold rival, defends himself with all his pow- 
er ; he warbles, he ascends, he shines, he triumphs .... a momentary triumph ! 
Clorinda follows him, she pursues him into every corner, she warbles, she is in 
the sky ! The poor nightingale must have fallen dead at the foot of his yoke 
elm. Clorinda triumphs ! At the same moment, the whole forest of rose-trees 
which waved in the saloon falls at the feet of the princess ; it is a shower, it is 
an avalanche. In vain does she ask favor and pity — no favor! no pity ! All the 
flowers of this beautiful saloon fall upon the head of Clorinda. This done, the 
drama recommences. Don Ferocino and the Chevalier Orlando fight a duel ; 
Ferocino is run through by a sword I The brave Ferocino, who sang so 
well! 

So much the worse ! Ferocino is dead, long live Orlando ! Clorinda sings 
with Orlando their mutual deliverance. • " She arranges her hair, and returns to 
feer se/ises," says the little book. Happy moment ! Oh grief ! Ferocino has 
only been half killed, and returns full of rage. Fury ! death ! malediction ! 
to such an extent, that he marries Clorinda to his rival Orlando, who becomes 
his best friend. The chorus and a final ivarbling ! 

They have asked for the author ! the author ! Don Ferocino, the fine, vi- 
brating voice, returns, modestly bowing. " The author," he says, " is Signor 
de Feltrini, the drama is an unpublished one by Dante, the decorations by Sig- 
nor Crontini, the refreshments by Donna Bianca. After which, they call for 
the actors ! the actors I They all return, even the choruses. Verses are thrown 
upon the theatre, and what is more, these verses are read. " Do not go, beau- 
tiful Clorinda, do not go to America, or if you do go to those distant countries, 
return quickly, when you have taught the nightingales of that land how to sing." 
So say the verses. The audience repeat in chorus a strain of regrets and of 
adieux. A delighful evening for Madame Damoreau^ a private ovation before a 
chosen public, all the beauty of the city ; great lords, poets, savants, great la- 
dies, were all there to applaud ! And in fact, it seems to me that this unique 
evening has a right to take its place in this history of a theatre. On this occa- 
sion, a few lovers of good music, in a parody full of grace, wit, and urbanity, 
have proved better than anything that I could say, that France is not wanting in 
great musicians, any more than in fine voices, or than in art and talent. They 
have proved that this great art of playing comedy, about which there is so much 
discussion, and which has become so rare in our days, was — all things consid- 
ered — the easiest of the arts, within reach of the first well-educated man who 
would take the trouble to walk as people walk, and to speak as they speak. To 
the sweet enjoyment of this happy evening, nothing was wanted ; neither the 
musician of incontestable skill and imagination ; nor the bass, which was admir- 
able ; nor the tenor, full of gayety ; nor the prima donna, to whom for perfec- 
tion of taste and singing, nothing could be compared; nor the choruses, which 
showed incomparable grace, energy, and vivacity. Add to this rare assemblage, 
the unanimous praise, the honestly-felt admiration, the urbanity of a select, ele- 
gant, and above all, benevolent party, and you will understand how we gained au 



THE ESMERALDA — MADEMOISELLE PUJET. 105 

insight, into the joy which the amusement of the theatre can give when it is 
complete, when nothing annoys you, when nothing is wanted, when you can 
say to yourself, " If I am not a happy man now, it is my own fault !" 

Certainly, to arrive at such results, thus to take possession of every piano and 
every mind, to sustain this generous struggle with the finest singers and the 
most inspired musicians, you must not fail either in genius or talent ; but on 
this occasion, there was no failure, in either of these points. What artist, what 
poet was ever more serious, and more occupied with the greatness of his mis- 
sion, than the author of Esmeralda, that beautiful opera ? He has composed 
his music with the rapture of M. Hugo himself, when he wrote his Notre Dame. 
And what an exquisite thing is the air in the last act : — 

" Combien j'aime 
Hers moi-meme, 
Toutici!" 

Ever since the day, when the illustrious author of the Esmeralda thus con- 
quered the prejudices, which a new-comer into this difficult career of dramatic 
music, always excites against himself or herself, he has remained faithful to that 
art which has given him so many happy days of repose and hope. In order that 
his work might be complete, the composer even became a poet ; his double 
revery is blended in a double dream ; and thus are consummated, the one by 
the other, these ballads of such tranquil poetry, such true and touching inspira- 
tion. This time, the intimate union of the poet and the composer — a union fer- 
tile in chefs d'oeuvre — was as close as possible. The twofold idea sprang from 
the same head, after having passed through the same heart. The verses and the 
air recount the same joy, are rocked in the same hopes, are intoxicated with the 
same griefs. 

This year, saloon music has sustained a great loss — that of the author of so 
many popular melodies which are admired throughout Europe, M. Monpou — 
he who sang so beautifully the ballad of M. Alfred de Musset, Connaissez vous 
dans Barcelone ; and all that loving history of the Spanish serenadp, dark com- 
plexion, autumn paleness, young marchioness with the black mantilla, satin 
dress which rustles as the lady leans from her balcony, to encourage by a look 
the lover who fights for her! This Marchioness d'Amaeghi was, for a long 
time, the rage in Paris. When Monpou died, the fashion in Paris was le Fou 
de Tolede, a Spaniard of M. Hugo's, worthy of the Spaniard of M. de Musset. 
Thus each month of the Parisian year brings with it its novel which succeeds, 
its vaudeville which is applauded, its romance which is sung ; a dozen vaude- 
villes, a dozen romances, as many novels, and Paris is satisfied. There is a cer^ 
tain romance, la Folle for instance, which has been played upon every piano, 
during a whole year ; this is even the only romance which has found favor with 
his majesty King Louis Philippe, who is an amateur of about the same standing 
as the Emperor Napoleon. Of all known airs, the emperor loved and tolerated 
only the Monaco. With one of these well-received airs, a man's fortune is made 
in Paris, la Folle for instance, which has traversed the world. Je vais revoir iTia 
Normandie, by a Norman poet and a Norman composer, has become the na- 
tional song of the province ; I have found it in all the steamboats, by the side of 
every highway, at the door of the inns — everywhere ; and the Norman does not 
tire of it any more than the traveller. And the romances of Mademoiselle Pu- 
jet, which I forget ! how ingenious, how copious she is ! how she has filled the 
world with her clearly accented melodies ! She is a musical bel esprit ; they are 
true dramas which she writes and composes ; and by way of rest from her dra- 
mas, she produces, from time to time, some lively and beautiful comedy. The 
fashionable ladies and the most skilful singers, even those of the opera, consider 
it a pleasure to repeat the compositions of Mademoiselle Pujet. These lines 
which I write in her praise, are penned to the sound of military music, which 
plays her finest airs. Is it not strange, an army marching to fight while musiq 



106 FAMILY CONCERT — FRENCH LOVE OF MUSIC. 

plays, in the distance, melodies sprung from the head of a young girl ? Cer- 
tainly this may be called success ! 

You understand, then, all the interest presented by a Parisian saloon thus 
occupied in this vain passion ; there, are boldly produced all the compositions 
of France, of Italy, of Germany ; there, come to exhibit themselves, the rarest 
talents in Eiu'ope ; there, you may suddenly see enter the celebrated cosmopo- 
lites of the musical art; Ernst, whose violin is filled with such sweet strains; 
Panofka, who will only play to chosen friends ; the inspired Hauman ; and the 
great pianists who make Paris their solemn rendezvous, Doelher, the charming 
and poetic genius ; Thalberg, dreams personified ; Halle, who thoroughly under- 
stands the genius of Beethoven ; and, finally, Liszt — Liszt the thundering, Liszt 
the irresistible, who burns, who crashes, and then suddenly brings you the melo- 
dies he has picked up, here and there, in the world. It is a delight to hear 
them, it is a pleasure to see them, as animated as if for a battle ! Each year they 
wish to know where Paris is, what it is doing, and what it thinks ; each year 
you may therefore see them coming to solicit — better than their approbation — 
to solicit the friendship of these artistes of the fashionable world, their worthy 
brethren, impartial and benevolent judges, who accept for themselves all the 
dangers of the struggle, all the sorrows of defeat, yielding to whoever has the 
right, the triumph, the popularity, the glory ! Happily, in all this triumph or 
defeat, the pleasure is for all. 

The day of which I speak, all the family was assembled in the small music- 
room ; there was no one there but a few intimate friends, of those friends who 
call at all hours, before whom one thinks aloud, and sings in a low voice. The 
young lady of the house, who is a true artiste, had just played with the most 
noble instinct, the overture of Der Freischiitz, that formidable composition, to 
which nothing can be compared ; her sister, who is still a child, but an inspired 
child, had sung the Adelaide of Beethoven, the most touching and most affec- 
tionate complaint which ever sprang from the heart of a lover and a poet. You 
would have said that in order the better to hear these sweet strains, every voice 
was silent beyond the house. For ourselves, we were entirely absorbed in this 
near contemplation of old masterpieces sustained by young voices. We said to 
each other, that assuredly it was a delightful destiny for the poet whose verses 
are repeated by new generations, for the composer, who can yet hear, from the 
depth of his tomb, the sweet melodies of his twentieth year. On these condi- 
tions, a man can not die ; he is arrested by death, but the idea which urged him, 
still marches onward ; his song expires upon his failing lips, but the interrupted 
air is immediately taken up by some young and noble singer. This respect for 
the masterpieces of former music, France has carried to a great extent ; there is 
no music so old and so forgotten, that the French have not restored it to honor. 
They have found again nearly all the musicians of the sixteenth century ; they 
have searched in the repertories of all the chapels ; they have demanded again 
from the organ of the cathedrals its interrupted chants. They had a great mu- 
sician, named Baillot, who played to admiration an Italian air, la Romanesca, re- 
covered by a happy accident, beneath the splendid arches of the Genoese palace. 
It is a melody of irresistible effect ; only to hear it tremble beneath the bow, it 
seems to you that all this beautiful Italian society of the sixteenth century, these 
young men, whom Ariosto celebrates, these friends of Medicis, these compan- 
ions of Doria, are about to reappear in these magnificent galleries, all filled 
with the chefs d'oeuvres of painters and sculptors. Assuredly, when young 
Paolo took you by the hand, lovely and proud Francesca, to dance with you, 
the orchestra suspended in its marble balcony, did not play a sweeter, a more 
tender, or a more melancholy air. Nothing can equal, for remembrances, some 
one of these wandering melodies, which centuries have murmured in the days of 
their youth, by the light of their stars, by the brihiancy of their sun. 

And then, the great art of the French virtuosos, is to give a truly poetic ex- 
pression to the most simple songs of former days. Of all the airs with which 
their nurses lulled them in their cradles, of the joyous country rounds, of the 
terrible complaints in which spirits and phantoms are named, these clever peo- 



WILHEM — AN AGREEABLE SURPRISE. 107 

pie have made so many duets, songs, grave elegies. From an Auvergne dance, 
they have composed a romance full of art and taste ; from the Clair de la lune, 
mon ami Pierrot, they have drawn the most charming of quartettes. Rossini him- 
self, that great genius, who seizes every light and shade — did he not write his 
beautiful finale to the Comie Ory from the popular air, Le Comte Ory disait -pour 
s'egayer? Following his example, Meyerbeer composed Les Huguenots from 
a psalm of the reformed church ; this is what may be called profitably using the 
smallest parts of the genius of a people. And remember that this passion for 
music has quickly passed from the drawing-rooms of Paris into the streets, and 
even the crossways. In the summer, if the night is at all fine, if there is any- 
thing like silence in the public place, you suddenly hear the sound of all kinds 
of beautiful voices, which sing ingenious melodies. To hear them, you would 
fancy yourself in some city of Germany. It is truly noble music, they are real 
singers ; the people slowly follow them, attracted, and as if fascinated, by these 
unexpected melodies. Whence come they ? They proceed from the school 
of a man named Wilhem, a worthy man of natural genius, good to the poor, 
devoted to his art, the friend of Beranger the poet, whose most charming songs 
he has set to music. This Wilhem finding that he was idle, and that the thea- 
tre was closed against him as well as the chapel, promised himself that he would 
one day contradict the anti-musical reputation of the good people of France. 
He would, he said, subdue, to strict time these bawling voices, these rebellious 
ears, and replace, by a grave and simple harmony, the indecent soiig of the ale- 
house. He wished that in future, whenever the temple needed a thousand sing- 
ers, a thousand singers should at once reply, " Here we are .'" He wished that, on 
the day when the national hymn was to resound through the cities, these young, 
ardent voices should make of the national hymn a song of glory and not a death- 
cry. "Ah," said he, "the cannibals have spoiled la Marseillaise, they h.'a.ye 
poisoned it with their impure breath, they have changed it into a scaffold com- 
plaint ! But imagine this holy hymn, sung in choir by young soldiers just set- 
ting out for the frontier ! Virtue, probity, innocent enthusiasm, these are what 
great musicians need .to work prodigies?" Thus spoke the honest Wilhem, 
who had in himself all ihe noble instincts of the poet. He is dead, after having 
accomplished a great work, a difficult task ; he has proved to the people of 
France that they were fitted for musical inspiration. He has introduced music 
into the schools for little girls, he has made it the most delightful study of the 
young workmen, and he has done all this alone, by the simple power of his own 
will. All these fine voices formed by his care, accompanied the coffin of Wil- 
hem, singing as they proceeded ! 

These Parisian ladies — if you knew \^hat delightful officiousness they can 
find in their hearts, when they begin to seek for it ! Apropos of this great art 
which they cultivate with so much affection, listen to a charming surprise. At 
the very moment when, entirely absorbed by the music, I suffered my mind to 
wander in a thousand waving dreams, I was suddenly arrested by a very simple, 
sweet, little air, to which all the American children of this generation have been 
brought up — an air by our friend and master, the good Schlesinger, whom all 
New York has wept. In fact, the little that we Americans know of the double 
science of voices and instruments, we owe to Schlesinger ; he has set to music 
our first verses to the first objects of our attachment ; he was the mind and the 
leader of our first concerts. But you can judge of my astonishment and my 
joy, when in this beautiful Parisian drawing-room, I heard sung, by these love- 
ly French voices, the favorite air which our master had composed, expressly for 
my little sister Nelly : — 

« The shades of night were falling fast. 
As through an Alpine village passed, 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior!" 



108 SCHLESINGER ^HIS DEATH. 

Do you wish to know the history of this worthy Schlesinger, whom our vir- 
tuosos of Paris recalled to me with so much eageriiess and kindness ? It is a 
history which does honor to the heads and the hearts of my American brethren, 
and this is why it gives me so much pleasure to relate it. 

This excellent artist Schlesinger was a composer by profession, his instru- 
ment was the piano, he followed with a firm step the powerful track of Liszt, of 
Thalberg, and of that great artiste Madame Pleyel, the honor of her science. 
Schlesinger hesitated long before he de.cided to go to America; he had been 
told that "the real in life was alone reckoned worthy of attention, in this kingdom 
of commerce. He was, in fact, neither a laborer, nor an artisan, nor a mer- 
chant, nor a priest, nor a doctor, nor a lawyer ; he carried with him no precious 
wares, nor any means of serving the wants or the ambition of men, and yet he 
started. You will imagine how long and painful the voyage across the ocean 
seemed to him ; at last he reached his destination ; fearfully he entered this 
grave country, where a whole generation is occupied in making money. Mad- 
emoiselle Fanny Ellsler had not then proved, by unanswerable demonstration, 
that the Americans can push admiration to folly; she had not then harnessed to 
her car, our gravest and most weighty magistrates. He who named America, 
spoke of a land of misery and hunger for artists ; the greatest names of art — 
Michael Angelo and Titian, Handel, Weber, Mozart, Haydn — were, and still 
are, names almost unknown in this vast and rich corner of the world, which will 
not so speedily repose in the fine arts. — Schlesinger however had no sooner ar- 
rived in New York, had no sooner placed his powerful fingers upon a piano, than 
he understood that he would soon become popular. He possessed, in a high 
degree, the talent of improvising, and the first evening they gave him for a 
theme one of the beautiful airs of Lutsow — "Was it the Rhine!" — No, it was 
the " Chasse de Lutsow'' — and such was his facility and his grace, that all these 
American minds were penetrated with sudden admiration. He then played the 
American national air Yankee Doodle, and every one began to applaud. But 
alas ! this first winter was full of anxieties and miseries ; and you know that 
when money stops in New York, everything stops; above all the fine arts must 
be abandoned. The unfortunate Schlesinger had scarcely three pupils ; he con- 
soled himself in his misfortunes with Sebastian Bach and Maria de Weber. In 
the month of April he gave his first public concert, to which very few people 
came ; six months aftei-ward he gave a second, the audience was still small, but 
at the moment of seating himself at the piano, he received news that his belov- 
ed and respected master, Ferdinand Ries, had just died. Immediately he 
changed his programme, and commenced playing a funeral march of Beetho- 
ven's, as the only oration which was worthy of Ries. 

The following winter, roving artists, travelling violins, wandering bass-viols, 
jugglers, rope-dancers, all the wretched tribe of gipsies, occupied the attention 
of iSfew York ; people ran to meet these gentlemen, with as much eagerness as 
if the point had been to go and applaud Mademoiselle Ellsler. Poor Schle- 
singer ! in spite of all his talent, he would soon have been entirely forgotten if 
la Concordia had not named him the leader of the orchestra. Schlesinger ac- 
quitted himself of this task with a noble ardor ; the concerts of la Concordia 
were attended with unanimous pleasure. At one of the last concerts, the lead- 
er of the orchestra made himself heard — he arrived, his eyes moistened with 
tears, and without uttering a word, played upon his piano the ballad of Uhland, 
of which the chorus is, " My little daughter is in her coffin ;" and in fact, he had 
just lost his child. 

This man was born unfortunate'; he hoped for nothing, not even for glory. 
He died, surrounded by some friends whom he had made as much by his char- 
acter as by his talent. He died, regretting only one thing, the last prayers of 
his French friends, in the ancient church of St. Germain I'Auxerrois, a noble 
church long outraged, but now rescued from ruin ; a noble church, which re- 
called to the poor artiste his native land, and happier days I There he had re- 
ceived the waters of baptism, there he had led his young wife to the altar, there 
he had heard upon the powerful organ, the most melodious strains of Sebastian 



AN ELEGY — A MUSICIAN IN NEW YORK. 109 

Bach and of Palestrina. " Saint Germain I" said he, " Saint Gennain !" It was 
his last, his only dream. He fancied he heard, even at that distance, the hymns 
of the inspired organ. It seemed to him that this time at least, the friends of 
his childhood would not fail him in his last rendezvous. Alas ! he was interred 
in the cemetery of New York. But accompanying friends, those regrets which 
honor both the living and the dead, the funeral sermon, that last alms of good 
and Christian men, did not fail the poor artiste. A fair, young, American girl, 
with blue eyes, a modest and artless poet, wrote impromptu upon the tomb of 
her master, this elegy full of feehng and sadness : — 

"Frere, tu n'es plus avec nous, 
Mais dans ce pays bien au-dela de la tombe. 

Ton ame qui voltige nous attend ; 
Tu souris au chant de la bande aimee, 
Helas ! elle obeissait naguere a ton geste imperieux, 
Et maintenant elle pleure son maitre. 

"Frere, le soleil descend du ciel 
Au ceil monte notre melodie : 
La cadence mourante de notre chant 

Est melee a la lumiere mourante. 
frere ! par ce rayon qui s'evanouit, 

Par ce triste chant d'adieu, 
Nous nous souviendi'ons de toi. 

"Le sculpteur dans sa pierre obeissante, 
Le peintre dans les couleurs de sa palette, 

Le poete dans ses vers, 
S'erigent i eux memes un monument; 
Mais de toi, de tant de passions soulevees, 
Rien ne reste. La musique de ton ame 
S'est evanouie tout entiere dans les airs." 

Sad destiny of a man of rare talent, who was willing to brave unknown man- 
ners, and lead his frightened muse into the midst of a city wholly occupied with 
the ambitions and the labors of the present hour ! Be a musician in New York ! 
Seek melody in the noise, in the tumult, in the precipitate and furious marching 
of these men who are incessantly pursuing fortune ! It was giving to the genius 
of our nation a challenge which it was impossible to sustain ! The unhappy 
artiste fell beneath the effort ; he died for want of a ray of sun and a little hope ; 
he died, possessing for his whole property only that sweet and plaintive elegy, 
softly murmured by a clear voice of sixteen years old. 

Where will you find better sentiments expressed in a loftier and more touch- 
ing way ? These beautiful verses I heard repeated by the noble girl who wrate 
them with a grateful hand. Yet later, I read them upon the tomb of the unfor- 
tunate exile — a tomb surrounded by regrets and honors — to which nothing was 
wanting, except to be placed beneath the arched roof of the ancient basilic of 
Saint Germain I'Auxerrois. 



110 THOUGHTS or HOME — MY NATIVE I/AND. 

CHAPTER XVIIL 

THOUGHTS OF HOME. 

In the midst of your truest admiration, and most lively enjoyments, in vain 
will you try — believe me, it will be impossible for you — to forget your absent 
country. It appears to you often like a hope, more than once hke a remorse. 
A mere nothing recalls it to you ; the song of a bird to which you have listened 
in the garden of your father's house, the sweet or wild smell of a flower, a tree 
from your native land — tree of my country ! — the step of a girl who dances, the 
veil of a lady who happens to pass you, a look, a tone of voice, a less than nothing, 
and suddenly you are again in the midst of the artless transports of your youth, 
all the happy accidents of your twenty years, all the delightful and maternal love 
with which those distant and beautiful shores surround you. Suddenly, in the 
midst of the most brilliant fete, sadness comes into your luind, your eyes are 
filled with ill-restrained tears, you say to yourself, "What do I here, I who am 
a stranger to these manners, to these men, to these customs, to these fetes, to 
these pleasures ? what do I here, plunged as I am in Parisian idleness, I, whose 
life ought at this hour to be so filled with activity, zeal, ambition, labor ?" With 
remorse comes the regret of absence ; your mother who calls you, your father 
whom you have not seen for so long, your grandfather whom you will not per- 
haps find living, your sister .... That which has recalled my sister to me, is 
the history of our musician Schlesinger; it is the music of this unhappy artiste, 
who died so quickly, and was forgotten so soon ! His melodies were certainly 
simple, but they were delightful. To careless minds, his music seemed like a 
faint and distant echo of Schubert's melodies ; but, he who heard him when he 
was young — at the mere sound of some few of these plaintive notes — sees again, 
at a glance, his whole life of childhood. To this air, to which no one listens, 
we young men wrote our first love-sonnets; we danced our first country-dance, 
to the airy accompaniment of this rich and natural music. Oh happiness ! my 
first waltz, when I held in my trembling hands the elegant figure of Miss Fanny; 
this waltz was written by the composer of our youthful days. You will there- 
fore readily understand how, on this last well-filled evening, I found myself pos- 
sessed with a strong wish again to see our dear America — and never again to quit 
thee, thou world, which art for me the real world ! Thus the visit which I paid 
as a simple evening call, was really the last. A second time I took leave of 
those friends whom Paris had lent to me, for in point of friendship Paris does 
not give, she lends. Adieu, then, once more ! my mission is ended ; I have 
seen Paris as it ought to be seen, under its double aspect of winter and summer. 
I have seen the great city, in its various attractions, in its diflferent ornaments, in 
velvet robe and in ball-dress, in its fetes and in its churches, at the opera and 
upon the boulevards ; I have even seen it at the French Academy; in a word, 
in every spot where it loves to resort — this beautiful Paris, dear to the artists, 
dear to the ladies, dear to the poets. 

Once more, adieu. I renounce the hope of understanding it better than 1 
have done ; I give up the idea of explaining and describing this capital city of 
astonishment and wonders. Let him who dares, attempt this impossible work ; 
let him who will, try to reproduce the image of this fabulous animal, which every 
instant changes its form and color. Strange city, which needs every morning a 
new revolution, by way of amusement; an immense crowd, which displays more 
passions than new dresses, and which is never amused except when on the edge 
of the abyss ; turbulent minds, grave geniuses, mad reasoners, a compound of 
truths and paradoxes, good and evil, vice and virtue, belief and doubt, prayer and 
blasphemy, mingled in the same whirlwind ! From such an abyss, and from such 
thick clouds, extricate yoursehes, if you can, unfortunate travellers ! Endeavor 
to comprehend this strange reality of the Parisian world ; you know not where it 
commences, yon know not where it finishes. Is it believing ? is it Voltairian ? 



PARIS NOT TO BE DESCRIBED — FRENCH HOSPITALITY. Ill 

Does it prefer M. de Laraartine to Diderot ? the gospel to the encylopsedia ? 
Vice or virtue, to which side does the city lean ? Is it trae that she encloses all 
this corruption, and that each morning, from the midst of these blasphemies and 
sins, Paris gives this frightful proof of the wickedness of man ? These accounts 
of dungeons into which penetrates scarcely a ray of sun, of depraved minds 
which have renounced even pity and hope, living corpses laden with chains and 
infamy — do you believe it ? can you ever believe it ? For my part, I can hon- 
estly say, that such is not the city which I have seen. The city which I visited 
in the winter fetes, in the soft joys of summer, was rich, and brilliant, and deco- 
rated : she lived by intelligence ; in case of necessity, she even had enthusiasm 
and heart. If you knew how dazzling, how active, how young, how well-dressed 
she is ! how she delights in the contemplation of that which is beautiful ! what 
praises she lavishes upon the great artists ! what encouragements upon the poets ! 
Oh ! I have seen her carelessly seated in the corner by the fire, with her feet 
upon the Aubusson carpet, or running in wild enjoyment, among the flowers of 
the garden, the fresh paths of the country, and then I said to myself, " Here is 
the Athenian city, the city of beautiful poems, of animated conversations, of ele- 
gant passions, the city of eloquence and the fine arts ! Where, then, will you 
meet more urbanity and hospitable grace ? You arrive — hands are held out to 
you, doors are open to you ; in a short time the house has no secrets from you ; 
you are the object of their affection, their confidant, a visiter, above all, you are 
welcome. The gentleman of the house conceals nothing from you ; the lady 
tells you everything, even her good actions ; for these Parisians have time to be 
charitable ; they know the way to the poorest houses. Such a one whom you 
meet so well dressed — ask her where she is going .... she is seeking some 
wretched roof, beneath which groans some unfortunate being. Such another, on 
your arrival, hastens to conceal the book she is reading, and does so with a 
blush. If you could secretly inteiTogate the mysterious volume, you would see 
that the young lady was simply reading, in the original language, Virgil or Titus 
Livy, Dante or Petrarch, Byron or Smollett, Goethe or Schiller ! 

I left Paris at the end of the month of August ; the city was entirely desert- 
ed. He who was not in the country, or at some village of mineral waters, or 
absent somewhere, dared not show himself ; if you went to call upon him, the 
porteress would reply to you with a roguish air, " Monsieur has left for the Py- 
renees, or for the sea-baths !" As, after all, I had a little time before me, I re- 
solved to abandon myself to the course of the river, and to ascertain for myself 
in what manner the French bathe in the sea. Let us go there : the Seine is 
covered with boats, which ask nothing better than to take you ; one of them is 
named the Etoiles, courageous stars which have kept up a rivalry even with the 
railroad. Not that the boat goes with equal speed, but these shores of the Seine 
are truly enchanting ; the water softly bears you from one bank to the other ; 
you pass from a feudal ruin to some little white house, half lost in its luxu- 
riant foliage. On your left, on your right, you have all kinds of joyous cries 
from the mowers of wheat and the mowers of grass. The Norman apple-tree 
bends, without breaking, beneath the weight of the fruit with which it is laden. 
Around your boat the broken wave rolls to a distance upon the pebbly shore ; 
whole cities pass before your eyes, surrounded by flowers and verdure, the 
bridges dance, suspended above your heads ; in these fertile and abundant coun- 
tries, you would in vain seek to recognise the former fields of battle. The soil 
has devoured all the dead ; the plough has rid the earth of the stumps of swords ; 
tumultuous stones have been ground to dust beneath the feet of the plough- 
horse. The Norman earth is no longer anything but verdure, abundance, fer- 
tility ; and yet, in these noble ridges armies have met — Normans, Bretons, Bur- 
gundians, French, English, Saxons, some from Ireland, and others from Flan- 
ders. How much blood has been spilt ! And yet the last harvest was very beau- 
tiful, the plain was verdant, the river was triumphant, and you can hardly believe 
all the brilliancy of these stars, of this sun. 

When the mind and imagination are occupied to such a point that you forget 
everything, when even the past and the future lose themselves to your view, in 



112 BANKS OF THE SEINE — THE DUTCHESS DE BERRI — DIEPPE. 

n unknown distance filled with hopes, you can say to yourself that you are oc- 
cupied with great things or great reveries. Thus dreaming, the longest route 
appears to you soon accomplished ; you arrive and say, "Already!'' You en- 
deavor to recall all the vanished images, the estates, the landscapes, the ham- 
lets, the cities, the manufactures, the dazzling apparitions of the mountain and 
the plain, of the water, the earth, and the sky. Vain efforts ! the wave takes 
you and throws you onward, the shore calls and attracts you ; in spite of 
yourself, you hear a voice which cries, " Proceed, proceed !" Come, then, 
there must be no hesitation, no delay ; you must obey ; continue your course, 
straight before you, even to that veil of thick darkness which Shakspere's Hamlet 
dared not raise with his trembling hand. Others, more eloquent, will describe 
to you all the beauties of this voyage from Paris to Rouen by the steamboat ; 
they will give you the whole history of this stining country of so much art, 
poetry, and science ; for my part, 1 have told you that I renounce descriptions ; 
when once I have started, I can think of nothing but arriving. Just as I was 
happy in the saloons of the great city, in the same proportion do I feel wretched 
on the burning deck of the steamboat. 

At last, however, do you see that arrow shot in the air ? do you see, proudly 
seated upon the banks of the river, the old Norman capital, which has united 
within its double enclosure, England and Finance, Richard Coeur-de-Lion and 
Philip Augustus, King Louis XIV. and William the Conqueror ? Industrious 
country of Pierre Corneille ! the great poet, from the height of his pedestal, 
seems to watch over the destinies of this nation of merchants and laborers, who 
surround him with so much praise, admiration, and respect. 

From Rouen to the baths of Dieppe is not far. Dieppe is the careless city, 
which sleeps during ten months of the year, that she may awake, active, and 
devoted, at the voice of the bathers. Dieppe also, like all the cities of Nor- 
mandy, has had her days of battles and rude labors ; she has furnished to history 
her full share of soldiers and celebrated mariners. The New World, when 
Europe took possession of it, could have told you much about these courageous 
sailors ;*but Dieppe at the present day reposes in the calm far niente of a happy 
city, where the idle of France and England come, every year, to pass a few fme 
days. 

It is not yet twenty years since Dieppe was the favorite city cf a princess whom 
France had adopted as her daughter, the Dutchess de Berri. To the borders 
of this complaisant sea the Dutchess de Berri came every year, bringing in her 
suite all the youth and all the elegances of that court of which she was the 
young and benevolent sovereign. She was good, she was happy, she knew that 
she was beloved. Her slightest woi'd was graceful ; at the very expectation of 
seeing her, the city of Dieppe clapped her hands. But alas ! with the reverses 
of the noble princess, the city of Dieppe has lost much of her good fortune. 
You might say, that, in leaving, the Dutchess de Berri had taken with her all 
which formed the charm and brilliancy of these delightful reunions. Those 
cities are indeed to be pitied whose fortune depends upon the caprices of a lady, 
the chances of a revolution ! 

Nevei'theless, when I reached Dieppe, the city was agitated as if the Dutch- 
ess de Berri were expected ; I found the tumult of a fete, the enthusiasm of tri- 
umph. Every house was full, and it was with great difficulty that I procured a 
wretched lodging in this city, which, generally speaking, is nothing but a vast 
hotel, open to all. 

But do you know what august person was expected in this neighboriiood ? 
The queen of England — yes, the queen herself, that young woman who bears 
so lightly upon her graceful head the weight of three crowns, the object of at- 
tachment to so many millions of men, the brilliant pearl of so powerful a royalty, 
the queen and the delight of the sea. In a happy moment of enthusiasm, 
Queen Victoria wished to know something of this kingdom of France, and sud- 
denly she determined to profit by the profound peace of waters and nations, of 
the earth and sky, to cross that narrow space over which have passed so many 
kings of England, so many dukes of Normandy, William the Cojiqueror and 



THE CHATEAU D'eU — ESCAPE OF THE ROYAI, FAMILY. 113 

his son, and the Plantagenets, and Henry I., Henry H., Richard Coeur-de-Lion, 
without counting the Enghsh of Cressy^and Agincourt. A happy voyage this ! 
a peaceful voyage of the young lady, wHo came to visit her father's old friend. 
Thus the winds were propitious, the waves were calm, the ocean restrained his 
anger and even his caprices. Come, then, since fortune favors us so far 
beyond our hopes, we will go to the chateau d'Eu, to those shores on which 
the queen of England is expected. From Dieppe the route is delightful, the 
Norman country displays on both sides of the road its richest productions. The 
chateau d'Eu is one of the most celebrated in Normandy, its position is excel- 
lent, its gardens are magnificent ; the old park, planted by the daughter of Henry 
the Great, is filled with ancient and majestic trees ; the sea, a silvery mirror, re- 
flects in its poetic wave the ancient and venerable chateau. You have no soon- 
er entered it, than suddenly appear to you, like so many phantoms, all the an- 
cient lords of these dwellings. They are all there, not only the masters of the 
place, but even the guests of an hour, those who have but passed and slept be- 
neath these important ceilings. Under this head you see Joan of Arc, the chaste, 
the admirable and sainted heroine of the middle age ; under this head you will 
see Queen Victoria. Joan of Arc and the queen of the English beneath the 
same roof! Oh what an advance has been made by the two nations on the two 
sides of the channel ! But the most serious and most terrible remembrances of 
the chateau d'Eu belong — who would think it ? — to the family of the Guises, 
those factious and courageous geniuses, and to M. de Lauzun, that ill-tempered 
man who so much abused the kindness of the great mademoiselle. You must 
read the memoirs of this unhappy princess, so affectionate and so devoted, to 
know how much she loved M. de Lauzun, and all that she suffered. Love in- 
spired this noble person, the greatest lady of the court of France — after the 
queen, for even she had thought of being queen of France — with a charming 
idea. Lauzun, who knew it but too well, asked her one day whom she loved. 
She breathed upon the glass, and on the warm vapor of her breath she wrote, 
with a loving finger, the name of Lauzun. Sombre dwellings, what recitals of 
murder, and of love, of devotion, and of perfidy, do you recall ! what heroisms, 
what soldiers, what kings and queens, what young men ! 

At the present day, the chateau d'Eu has become a kind of chapel of ease to 
the chateau de Neuilly. Even the Guises, who seem yet to obey Le Balafre, 
are only there as an ornament to the walls. The house is filled with young 
princes, and fair children, and young women, for each day brings a new one to 
this popular court : yesterday, the Princess de Joinville ; to-morrow, perhaps, 
the Dutchess d'Aumale ; and, before long, Madame de Montpensier ; Montpen- 
sier ! the favorite name in these royal dwellings. The day of which I speak 
was one of great excitement at the chateau d'Eu. The expected queen might 
arrive — everything was ready for her reception. The cannon was placed upon 
the heights ; large vessels brought the finest soldiers of the French army. In 
the night, the Prince de Joinville had started with his pilots to escort the royal 
yacht from a greater distance. Meantime, we — the travellers, the curious, the 
enthusiasts, the lovers of fine sights — we remained upon the shore, seeking to 
discover from afar the approaching vessel. 

Attention, however, was not fixed so strongly upon the sea, but that we 
wished to visit the perilous bridge, from the top of which, not three days pre- 
viously, the monarchy of July had been nearly engulfed in the waves. They 
were all in the same carriage, the king, the queen, the Dutchess d'Orleans, the 
Count de Paris, and the other children ; suddenly the bridge breaks, and the 
forward horses fall. Picture to yourself this whole monarchy suspended over 
the abyss, and saved as if by miracle ! The king, always master of himself and 
of the present hour, always a king — seized, from the arms of his tearful motherj 
the young Count of Paris, the son of his son, the future king of France; ip^ 
mediately he threw the child into the apron of a counti-y-woman ; but this '- 
woman, who held a whole monarchy in her apron, did she suspect the/ 
burden which for one moment she bore ? 

Suddenly the cannon roar, the music resounds, the shore utters criesf 

8 / 



114 ARRIVAL OF QUEEN VICTORIA THE ROYAL PARTY. 

They sing and play the national air of England, God save the Queen! much as- 
tonished at finding itself upon these banks. It is she, it is the queen ! Do 
you see afar off, that black speck gradually enlarging ? It is she, it is the queen 
whom England confines to France. I have seen her as often as it was possible 
to see her, this lady who would be taken at a distance for a lovely child. The 
king of the French has come to meet the queen with the eagerness of a young 
man who awaits his bride ; he holds her in his arms as if he had found his 
daughter again; the queen receives her with emotions truly maternal. The 
Dutchess of Orleans, imposing silence for a moment on that severe grief which 
has not left her during this long year of mourning, salutes Queen Victoria as a 
sister. The entrance of the young queen into the chateau d'Eu is a complete 
triumph. The people who have crowded to these shores, feel so delighted with 
the young and gracious sovereign for her confidence, and for the enjoyment she 
gives to her royal host ! 

During the stay of the queen in the neighborhood, I, who had so much de- 
sired it, saw her every day. 

Indeed, every one could approach this brilliant court, which comprised no less 
than three queens, and contemplate at their ease these assembled majesties. 
The forest which surrounds the chateau d'Eu is vast and magnificent ; it may 
be traversed in every variety of equipage ; its shade is favorable to every kind of 
magnificence. Upon one of the edges of the forest, rises the mount d'Orleans. 
This mount terminates in a vast plain surrounded by the most ancient trees. On 
this plain had been erected a splendid tent, and on each side you could see 
hastening, on horseback, or in carriages, all the guests of the chateau d'Eu ; 
Queen Victoria by the side of the king of the French, and the queen of the 
French, and Queen Louise of Belgium, and the Dutchess d'Orleans and the 
Princess de Saxe Cobourg, and the new Princess Madame de Joinville, with the 
grace of a Frenchwoman, the look of a Spaniard, a grave and elegant beauty; 
a better contrast could not have been found, to the fair and juvenile grace of the 
Dutchess de Nemours. The princes of the house of France and Prince Al- 
bert attended by the side of the carriages. Next came M. Guizot, that clever 
man who has thrown so much light upon the history of England — Lord Aber- 
deen, and the ambassadors and officers of her Britannic majesty ; then in the 
midst of this immense concourse, a few Parisian artists, M. Alaux, M. Morel- 
Fatio, M. Simeon-Fort, M. Eugene Isabey, the sea-painter jjar excellence ; and 
above all M. Eugene Lami — our worthy fellow-laborer, or, to speak more cor- 
rectly, our master in all these Parisian excursions ; for it is one of the customs 
of the king of the French to have the history of his times written by painters 
and sculptors, rather than by historians and poets. He loves the beautiful his- 
torical pages, which the artist adorns with his brilliant colors. As the principal 
ornament of his chateau d'Eu, the king chooses that painters should represent 
for him, all the splendors of this royal visit. He has set apart for these paint- 
ings, of which the queen of England will be the august heroine, the finest sa- 
loon in the chateau d'Eu, which will bear the name of Queen Victoria. The 
artists are already at their task, and you may be sure they will not delay, so 
much are they pleased with the heroine, the beauty of the scene, the magnifi- 
cence of the sea and the sky. 

Assuredly, the loveliness of these fresh landscapes, the old king aged by labor 
more than by years, the three queens, the young women so beautiful and so 
graceful, the Dutchess d'Orleans with her imposing figure, her sincere and pro- 
found grief, the Count of Paris, who gives his hand to his mother, the people 
who cry Vivat ! and at your feet, even to a distance, the extensive panorama 
which prolongs, beneath the clear sunbeams, its endless beauties — here is a sub- 
ject for a vast and admirable painting. The evening arrived, the gallery of the 
Guises is lighted in the most splendid manner ; already it is filled by those who 
are invited to the evening fete, and by some foreigners who enter without being 
invited, so great is the hospitality of this royal house ! When the king and 
queen appear, the concert commences, a concert composed of chefs d'oeuvre, 
the richest melodies, the most admirable compositions of the greatest masters, 



THE qUEEN's DECISION HER DEPARTURE. 115 

for it is known that the queen of England entertains the most Uvely and deep- 
ly felt passion for music. On that evening were played the beautiful overture 
of Iphigenie en Aulide, that exquisite work of Geuck's; the overture to the 
Enchanted Flute by Mozart ; an air from the Siege of Corinth, and that admir- 
able chorus from Iphigenie, the application of which was easy, What grace, 
what majesty ; and the chorus from Armide, Never in these lovely spots. This is 
what may be called music and genius. These skilful artists also executed the 
symphonic en la by Beethoven, a masterpiece which the queen of England 
knows by heart. Unfortunately, they only played the andante and the minuet, 
and then the queen slightly knit her brow. "There are some chefs d'oeuvre," 
said she, "in which nothing ought to be retrenched." To make amends for 
this, they gave her the whole overture of Zanetta, by M. Auber. 

This visit of the queen, I can honestly say, was full of elegance and cour- 
tesy. The whole city of Paris, seeing that the queen of England was at her 
gates, prepared to give her a suitable reception. The opera would have offered 
her Robert Ic Diahle, its masterpiece ; the Hotel de Ville — that palace worthy 
of the greatest monarch in the world, the Paris citizen — wished to invite her 
majesty to one of those fetes which appear fabulous. Already the galleries of 
the Louvre opened their doors to the visit of her majesty. The palace of Ver- 
sailles, happy and proud, at last to see a queen of England reigning and obey- 
ed, after having sheltered Henrietta of England, the conquered and despoiled 
queen, opened all her gates, to show Victoria Louis XIV., and the great cen- 
tury. . At the same time, Fontainebleau would have taught the royal traveller 
the art, the taste, and the splendors of the age of Francis I. Thus delight was 
everywhere, the eagerness was general, the joy was unanimous. These French, 
when they choose it, are still, all things considered, the most gentlemanly men 
in the world ; their benevolence is natural ; when they cry Vivat I the cry comes 
from their hearts ; you must believe in their enthusiasm, it is an honest enthu- 
siasm ; in their admiration, it is lively and deeply felt ; their hospitality is gene- 
rous, brilliant, impassioned ; and certainly, a young queen, courteous, polite, 
benevolent, has reason to expect from the polished city, the best and most loyal 
reception. 

Above all, the king of the French, — who understands doing the honors of 
this beautiful kingdom — from the midst of all the splendors with which the city 
is filled, would have chosen — that he might present them to the queen, as the 
finest ornament of his reign and of his century, — the statesmen, the orators, the 
poets, the literati, the artists, all the great names, all the glorious names of 
France ; he would have presented them all to her Britannic majesty, with the 
legitimate pride of a king who knows well, where lie the strength and the 

greatness of his kingdom The queen decided otherwise ; she wished 

simply to make a visit to the king, her neighbor and her ally. This journey 
through France appeared to her too long, she was afraid of exciting too much 
jealousy in England; therefore she remained at the chateau d'Eu, where each 
day a new fete awaited her. They even gave her comedy, little pieces thorough- 
ly Parisian, and above all, M. Arnal, one of those happy actors who have only 
to show themselves, to excite laughter and wild delight. Certainly a vaudeville 
played by M. Arnal is an amusing thing ; but with equal certainty, if the queen 
of England had been at Versailles, the vaudeville would not have dared to show 
itself in these magnificent places, filled with the wit and brilliancy of French 
poetry ; the queen would then have had a play worthy of the palace of Ver- 
sailles, Moliere's Misanthrope, Racine's Britannicus, or what is better still, the 
Cinna of the great Corneille ; for this happy country of France counts only by 
chefs d'oeuvre ; chefs d'ceuvre for the king's palace, buffooneries for the little 
apartments. 

At last, after four days of this royal and paternal hospitality, the queen took 
leave of her host, her departure being no less magnificent than her arrival. 
Early in the morning, the chateau d'Eu was filled with soldiers under arms. 
The expectation was general. Very soon, the doors of the palace open, and 
the king appears, giving his arm to Queen Victoria, who bows adieu to th© 



116 THE queen's departure PARISIAN SOCIETY. 

crowd which salutes her. I know not how to tell you the number of the 
horses, the richness of the carnages, the livery of the servants, all the brilliant 
crowd, which conducted back to her vessel, the young queen. The bark was 
dressed and impelled by twenty-four rowers. The music played, the artillery 
thundered, the rising sun illumined the heavens, and his golden rays broke upon 
the queen's vessel, which shone in the distance. Eight beautiful steamers 
composed the royal escort ; the Pluto, the Tartarus, the Cyclops, he Napole- 
on, the Prometheus, the Reine Amelie, and an infinite number of boats, and 
light bai'ks, all laden with adieus and vivats. The king and the queen, and all 
the royal family, conducted her majesty Victoria to her beautiful vessel, the 
Victoria and Albert. They bade adieu to each othei', a tender and paternal 
adieu on the side of the king, a filial adieu on the part of the queen. The two 
queens embraced each other ; and then you might have seen disappearing in the 
distance, the Victoria and Albert. The king, however, wished to see his young 
ally once more, and followed the royal yacht in his boat ; the queen stopped for 
a moment, and with a charming gesture, bade the king of the French once 
more farewell I 

Those readers who have been able to follow me in the account of this two- 
fold journey to Paris, know very well that I am not a courtier. We children of 
America, are but little accustomed to composing the dithyrambus; on the con- 
trary, like the dogmatical beings that w» are, satire is our gi-eat delight, and we 
have made of irony a tenth muse. Nevertheless, it is impossible for me not to 
congratulate myself, at the happy chtmce which has crowned with such success 
this history of a summer in Paris ; a brilliant history, at least for me, a specta- 
tor moved and interested with so many charming details of this Parisian society, 
which has not its equal under the sun ; an elegant and polite society, benevolent 
and calm, which demands from each only what he can give, and is contented 
with that ; a happy mixture of artists and great lords, in which predominates 
the citizen, that is to say, good sense ; a people tried by so many revolutions, 
and who have finished by bearing them with the best grace in the world, and 
without its being known by any one beyond the city ; men who understand busi- 
ness as well as pleasure ; great citizens who bear the favor of the people as well 
as their disapprobation ; who know how to renovmce popularity when it is ne- 
cessary to be unpopular, and to defend liberty against its own excess ; a world of 
raillers and of skeptics, who go gravely to church to hear Christian discourses, 
and to judge them, under the double point of view, of literature and eloquence ; 
a formidable city ! in less than two yeais, she has surrounded herself with bas- 
tions, fortresses, fosses and walls, sufficient to defy the whole of Europe ; but 
already they walk upon these ramparts, already they dance upon these walls, al- 
ready they cultivate flowers in the depth of these fosses. For my part, I, who 
have seen her under her twofold aspect, during the frosts of winter, and in all 
the joys of summer, lavishing by the side of the fire her wit and her brilliant 
conversation, or else confiding to the old oaks of the forest her poetry and her 
eloquence ; I, who have seen her in her ball-dress, the head laden with flowers, 
the shoulders covered with diamonds; or in the ample muslin dress, wearing a 
straw bonnet as a protection from the wind and the sun ; I, who know how she 
expends talent, invention, genius, wisdom and folly, truths and paradoxes, win- 
ter as well as summer, summer as Avell as winter, — I still ask myself which of 
these two cities is to be preferred. Imitate me ; let my conclusion be yours ; 
if you wish to know what Paris is, study Paris during the winter ; if you wish 
to know what Paris is, study it during the summer, study it incessantly, so that 
after having carefully examined it, you may still think of it with regret. 

Here concludes, naturally, the account of this new excursion, an interesting 
account, which I ought to have written with more ease and brilliancy. At the 
chateau d'Eu I said farewell to this ^^ pleasant country of France" as Marie 
Stuart called it. Indeed, after this last happiness of my journey what could I 
hope ? I had visited all the royal dwellings, Versailles, Saint Cloud, Fontaine- 
bleau, Meudon. I had been present at all the joys, at all the fetes of the month 
of April, and the month of May. As a last adventure, after having arrived by 



DEATH OF M. HDGO's DAUGHTER. 117 

the first train of the railroad, I departed just in time to salute with mind and 
look the greatest lady in the world. A complete fete. . . , But alas! where is 
there a complete fete in this world ? where is the brilliant landscape, where is 
the corner of earth, where is the wave of the sea, which has not its history of 
wo and mourning ? In the very wave over which I have passed to return to 
my home in New York, perished, not a week since, a fragile bark ; in this bark 
died the daughter of the great poet, the first-born of M. Victor Hugo's chil- 
dren — she was not twenty years old ! — engulfed by the wave ! And now the 
sea appeared calmer than ever, the earth more blooming, the sun more brilliant. 
As I was thinking of these misfortunes which strike the highest heads — the 
grief of M- de Chateaubriand, who has lost his daughter ; M. de Lamartine, 
who weeps his only child, and now M. Victor Hugo inconsolable in his turn, I felt 
a blow upon my shoulder, given by one of my Yankee friends — a worthy man, 
but not much disposed to weep over calamities which do not directly aifect him. 
" What are you thinking about ?" said he to me, " /was thinking that perhaps 
I was wrong not to sell my cottons at the price last quoted." " And I," was 
my answer, " was thinking that the sea is brilliant and treacherous, that the 
ocean sometimes bears upon its bosom strange treasons, — I was thinking that in 
a week there would be a fete — a grand fete in the park of Saint Cloud, — I was 
thinking of the landscapes, the gardens, the splendors of the chateau de Meu- 
don." 



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